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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28231383">Merriment &amp; Wisdom</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley'>Raphaela_Crowley</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mansfield Park (1999), Mansfield Park (2007), Mansfield Park (TV 1983), Mansfield Park - All Media Types, Mansfield Park - Jane Austen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Declarations Of Love, Don't Worry Tom Doesn't Die (I'm Explaining Because You Look Nervous), Edmund and Fanny platonic friendship, Emma References, F/M, Family Drama, Fanny Is Already An Adult When She Meets The Bertrams, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Humor, Illnesses, Northanger Abbey References, POV Alternating, Poverty, Pride and Prejudice References, Romance, Slight Fandom Fusion, Tom Is Not Traumatised By Antigua He's Just A Goofball With A Gambling Problem, not actually a crossover</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:22:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>161,618</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28231383</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Bertram meets Fanny Price in Portsmouth and is shocked by the state of poverty and neglect in which the delicate young lady lives. So he makes the rash decision to marry her and bring her back to Mansfield with him as his wife. </p><p>After all, what good is having a clergyman for a brother if you can't get married when you want to?  </p><p>But Tom never stopped to wonder if Fanny would be welcomed in her new home, or if he'd be responsible enough to look after her (he's not). </p><p>And when Tom suddenly falls gravely ill, Mary Crawford (who isn't even betrothed to Edmund yet) begins planning her future as Mistress of Mansfield, unthinkingly displacing Fanny, who she considers all but a widow already.    </p><p>It's most certainly not the fairy-tale ending Fanny or Tom envisioned for themselves.   </p><p>With the looming fear of an uncertain future for his wife, Tom realises he needs to put away childish things for good and become a man worthy of inheriting Mansfield at long last.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Edmund Bertram &amp; Fanny Price, Edmund Bertram/Mary Crawford, Fanny Price &amp; Susan Price, Fanny Price &amp; William Price, Julia Bertram/John Yates, Tom Bertram &amp; John Yates, Tom Bertram/Fanny Price</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>263</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>110</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Beginnings, Such As They Are</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part One:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Beginnings, Such As They Are</em>
</p><p>Tom Bertram was not altogether certain by what mad bewitchment or bizarre turn of fate he had found himself in Portsmouth on Assembly Night. If anyone was to be prevailed upon in blame for enticing him hence, however, certainly it was the damnable Mr. Yates, his particular friend of the moment. Although – to be quite <em>sure</em> – why Yates should have dragged him along to this backwater, he could not fathom. Everyone they met was far below their station, for one thing.</p><p>Luckily, the poor can drink and make merry as well as the rich (given they've saved their last coin or have generous credit stored up with the right person at the right establishment).</p><p>For this reason, Tom was not unduly distressed at finding himself within this most rustic of dance halls.</p><p>Besides, poor girls, too, are – generally – just as pretty as the wealthy ones, even if they cannot dress to show it.</p><p>Though, in truth, it is a surprising fact that most females dress only for themselves and for the envy of one another, rather than for the proper notice of a man, whatever they<em> think</em> they are about when preparing themselves; because even a well-to-do heir like the eldest Mr. Bertram could not readily tell the difference and would not have known fine muslin if it were waved under his nose.</p><p>Suddenly perturbed, Tom halted in his merrymaking, setting aside his drink and stretching out a hand to snap for Yates' attention – or that of <em>anyone</em>, really, though it was Yates who finally responded, and so that was well enough.</p><p>"Good God, man, are you seeing this?"</p><p>Yates blinked. Then he squinted. "I do not notice anything amiss."</p><p>"For mercy's sake, are you <em>blind</em>, my good fellow? <em>Her</em>!" He pointed emphatically. "The little stunted creepmouse clutching at her heart and breaking away from the dancers, poor wretch."</p><p>"I do not–" he began uncertainly.</p><p>Tom sighed with exasperation. "She has light hair in ringlets and is wearing an amber cross on a bit of ribbon the same ghastly colour as the ribbon on her bonnet for her ornament, simple thing." (Jewellery and bonnets are <em>not</em> muslin.)</p><p>"Ah, yes, I see the unfortunate creature now – she is wearing a crummy dress, is she not?" (Yates is an exception to the general rule, thus providing sure proof of it.) "Worn out dancing shoes as well." <em>Tsk, tsk.</em> "Look at the state of those sorry things."</p><p>Indeed, the soles did flap some. But they had been good shoes <em>once</em>, perhaps. Nay, undoubtedly. Foolish Yates was unkind to imply otherwise, but we shall herein put it down to ignorance and forgive him. His opinion does not, after all,<em> matter</em>.</p><p>"Yes, yes, Yates – but that is not what I was about in pointing her out to you." Tom rolled his eyes. "It is simply that I think there may be an incident. Our new acquaintance made of a single chance glance is clearly unwell. I make it my business, as you know, Yates, never to take notice of anything that should disturb my pleasure – but having seen her distress already it is, I fear, too late for me." He appeared greatly put upon, preparing to make a martyr of himself. "She is <em>ill</em>. There is no mistaking it. No colour in her face and such a weariness of step."</p><p>"Shall I find out who she is for you, then?"</p><p>"<em>Oh...</em>" He pursed his lips and slipped his hands behind his back. "You <em>mustn't</em> put yourself out, Yates." The gleam in his eye was playful, but there was still no telling if he was or was not being a bit sarcastic in this out of delayed spite over his spoiled evening. "I shall go and speak to her, all on my own, with no introductions, making any arrangements with my hard-won money for her immediate care if she should seem likely of dying right in front of me, and perhaps I shan't have any further enjoyments for the remainder of the night – fretting over the wheezing, scarcely breathing girl – but you – having taken no notice on your own of her and not so distressed as I – need not fret as I do."</p><p>"Jolly good." And Yates fled before Tom could even <em>dream</em> of changing his mind.</p><p>"Well," he muttered, "he didn't take much convincing, did he?"</p><p>And then he excused himself from the party and ducked into the low-ceilinged antechamber which was adjoined to the cloak room. There, on a low wooden bench, was the gasping maiden wearing the amber cross. She'd undone her bonnet and set it down beside herself.</p><p>"What's amiss, then?"</p><p>She started, staring up with eyes that were light and soft.</p><p>Two things struck Tom at once, then, despite his not being particularly perceptive by nature.</p><p>One was how odd it was that, though raised in Portsmouth, her expression was not hardened like the other ladies – the eyes of the women he'd met here were, if not exactly haughty, at least saucy – even calculating. And why not? They were counting their chances of getting out of poverty – what should be more natural? It was a local thing, as expected as an accent. Yet there was no such look in <em>her</em> eyes. She was wearied, yes; hardened, no, not so much – very little, if at all. It was enough to make him wonder how she survived here, looking like a little prim madam, how she endured the teasing which must surely result.</p><p>The second was that she was unexpectedly pretty.</p><p>Not, however, in the usual way of prettiness that Tom came to expect simply because most women allowed within his family circle were of the sparkling, dark-eyed variety. This was – though Tom had not given the matter enough thought to reach this conclusion himself, being a man, and not a very sombre one at that – because his Aunt Norris did not care to have women around who might rival the beauty of her favourite of his two sisters, Maria. Maria was fair, and so only dark women were deemed suited to be in her presence. The younger sister, Julia – though also fair and willowy and almost as graceful – was no threat, on account of her nose.</p><p>Tom's younger brother had recently been disappointed in love by a young dark-eyed woman who he'd pined over at great deal, desperately wanting to marry but finding it quite impossible on the young lady's end of things. Dark-eyed, merry, and musical – played the harp. Nice enough, if you liked that sort of thing.</p><p>Tom had long since taken for granted by the demeanour of those around him that one was to purposefully look for dark eyes in a beautiful woman if she was worth having. He was not, understandably, typically drawn to features which put him in mind of his<em> sisters</em>. So he surprised himself a great deal by decidedly liking this girl's looks, now that he saw her close up.</p><p>She was not – despite the fairness – very like his sisters, after all, though she was – oddly, he thought – quite the image of the younger-than-she-was-<em>now</em> mother he remembered from his earliest childhood days.</p><p>Lady Bertram had not possessed <em>much</em> energy even back when he was small, but she'd had<em> more</em> of it. These days she was forever half-asleep and she spoke more to her pug – and if in desperate need of something and unable to find her husband in the large house, Tom's younger brother – than she spoke to him. She did not mean to be cruel – if asked, she might even have said, with sincerity, Tom was her favourite, as he was her first; she was simply not the sort of woman who knew how best to indulge her favourites if they were not babies or dogs. She had said something, once, of giving his bride – if he married someone gentle who would appreciate the gesture – one of Pug's puppies, should their wedding coincide with the birth of a litter. In the love language of Lady Bertram, there could be no higher compliment. No truer gesture.</p><p>Tom, for his part, had not replied; he was privately convinced he was extremely unlikely to marry before his brother (the dark-eyed girl had not yet refused the poor sap at this point, and hope was still to be had) anyway.</p><p>This girl could, in face and form, be his own mother's daughter, even if she was not much like his mother's <em>actual</em> daughters in looks or – presumably – in speech.</p><p>"I did not mean to startle you."</p><p>She shook her head. "You didn't," she gasped out. "That is... I am all right. I am not alarmed."</p><p>"I'm glad to hear it." He sat down beside her with a light groan, nudging her discarded bonnet aside so carelessly he nearly knocked it off the bench. "You looked unwell, running from the dancing as you did. How does someone so young get knocked up so easily?"</p><p>"I'm often tired," was all she could be made to say on the subject.</p><p>"Does your physician worry about it?"</p><p>She blinked at him, a grave little subject with her hands folded in her lap.</p><p>"No money for a physician, then."</p><p>A flush of pride came into her expression at last. "No, no – not for me, because I am too often..." She shivered. "And it amounts to nothing, you know, when I'm really all right, just not very strong. But when my sister, Mary, was..." She'd come to be out of breath again and needed to pause before speaking further. "When Mary was very sick, we had a very good doctor then."</p><p>When Tom was later to learn that 'little sister Mary' did not recover, and had survived under the doctor's care only long enough to pathetically bequeath a silver knife her godmother gifted her with to another sister, his opinion of her family's monetary woes was sharper, and probably closer to the truth, but he took her at her word for the moment.</p><p>Her family would doubtless do <em>something</em> for her, he concluded, if she were in any real danger of collapsing as he had at first supposed her to be.</p><p>Tom was then spared from either making an awkward excuse or else attempting to continue speaking to the little thing who, really, did look so pale still, by a girl – of perhaps fifteen years to the sickly one's presumable eighteen – coming over and crying, "Fanny! There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you."</p><p>She was a pretty girl, in that same willowy golden way as his sisters and mother, but her constitution was stronger than her weak companion's, her cheeks rosier, and her general air more of the expected sort as well. If there was some mystery to the manners of her wheezing friend, there was little to none worth noting in <em>her</em>. Beautiful, yes, but she was too young to tempt Tom Bertram, and he found introductions between women exceedingly dull, and so left them to each other as hastily as he could manage it.</p><p>He glanced, in parting, over his shoulder, and the sickly creepmouse whom her companion called Fanny was giving him a <em>look</em>.</p><p>A look that said, unmistakably, his manners – while not wholly ungracious – might still have been vastly improved.</p><p>Indeed, he did think afterwards he might have given her his surname, or even deigned to ask <em>hers</em>, if not that of her companion.</p><p>But, dash it, he'd taken a moment to ask about her well being, had he not?</p><p>Yes, he had.</p><p>And when he might have ignored her altogether – all the other gentleman had, after all – so she ought not to look at him with <em>quite</em> so much condemnation.</p><p>Quickly, though, she glanced away and was so focused on reassuring her companion that she was all right but shouldn't they start back for home now, that he could almost wonder if he'd simply projected his own guilt onto her, onto an innocent near-invalid, and it had not been a <em>look</em> as such.</p><p>Perhaps it was badly done on his part.</p><hr/><p>"Badly done?" laughed Yates as they walked the harbour the afternoon of the following day (neither had been in any state to walk about in the blazing sunshine during the<em> morning hours</em>, both too busy nursing their sore heads and lolling about on the furniture of the inn they were residing at). "You were the only one to say a word to the poor, crummy creature. Your conduct was surely above all reproach, my good man. Particularly in a place such as<em> this</em>."</p><p>Tom nodded. "Indeed, I thought as much – I simply wished for a second opinion." He paused. "I suppose it is too early to adjourn to a tavern for a drink?" There were any number of decent places to go for ale around the dockyard, and it was not as if Portsmouth was a hotbed of other pleasant diversions. "For shame, Yates, I don't <em>believe</em> it!"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>He pointed to a rosy-cheeked girl of fifteen. "It is the little companion of our creepmouse friend from last night – let's make ourselves scarce before she speaks to us and we are inflicted for the next few hours with a child's company. Children ought to be enjoyed in moderation, you know, and I don't think I've come all the way to this nothing place to be moderate."</p><p>"She will only wish to thank you for looking after her companion, I'm sure."</p><p>"Oh," he waxed, rolling his eyes, "I can see it now – brokenly thanking me for..." His mouth remained parted, hanging agape now. "I <em>say</em>! She has just walked by us without a second glance. What <em>can</em> she mean by it?"</p><p>"She did not see us, then," concluded Yates, not unhappily.</p><p>"John, you fool, she <em>did </em>see us. She looked right at us." Tom was indignant, caught between scowling and laughing, whirling on his heel breathlessly. "Come. We must circle around and go after the ungrateful stinker to learn why we are thus snubbed."</p><p>They had to go rather out of their way to head her off, and she was carrying a basket of something or other, which she nearly dropped in her exasperation at not avoiding them.</p><p>"Huuuuulloooo, dear girl!" cried Yates, quite ridiculously, hands cupped over his mouth as if he were standing a mile off from her, rather than a couple feet. "What-ho!"</p><p>Tom nudged him. "She's a <em>child</em>, Yates," he hissed. "Not<em> deaf</em> – there's no need to shout."</p><p>She readjusted the handle of the basket in the crook of her arm. "Yes? May I help you?"</p><p>"We met last evening, at the assembly," said Tom, smiling charmingly.</p><p>"Did we?" Her pale eyebrows raised. "I do not recall us being introduced. Or any exchange of words passing between us."</p><p>"He was the gentleman sitting with your companion," said Yates, still rather too loudly, as though he still thought he was talking to a being of less intelligence than himself.</p><p>"The grand gentleman who left without saying goodbye to her – or speaking a greeting to her sister," she amended sardonically. "Yes, I remember that much."</p><p><em>Sister.</em> Ah. Quite right. That explained the resemblance between their looks apart from the creepmouse's obvious low spirits and this one being as merry and healthy as a horse.</p><p>The thought of horses – even being recalled to mind only for the sake of comparison – reminded Tom, in passing, that he ought to see about getting the latest racing news as soon as possible.</p><p>Someone at the nearest tavern would have a newspaper about them, perhaps?</p><p>Er, what was he about now? Yes, it began to come back to him, slowly but surely – the child who snubbed himself and Yates for no reason at all.</p><p>"No offence was meant."</p><p>"Then none was taken, was it?" she muttered, and tried to get around him. "Excuse me."</p><p>"Hang on. Why are you cross with me?" Blocking her way again, Tom looked genuinely wounded.</p><p>"For one thing, sir," she snipped bitterly, glancing up into his – admittedly – guileless face, "you have not even asked about my sister's health."</p><p>He considered this, twisting his mouth pensively. "It has not – in the hours between last night and this very afternoon – taken a bad turn and become very poor?"</p><p>"No more than usual."</p><p>He stood with his hand behind his back, causally shifting from one foot to the other. "Then why should I waste my time asking after it?"</p><p>The girl scoffed, and this time successfully manoeuvred around him.</p><p>He followed, trotting to keep himself at her side, Yates scuttling doggedly along just behind him, puffing slightly.</p><p>If Tom were a different, more attentive, sort of person at this point in his life he might have inquired as to if she should like him to carry the basket for her. But, then, the thought – along with a great many others in those days – never entered his head.</p><hr/><p>Susan Price, having finally shaken the company of the two fancy gentlemen (indeed, they were not so hard to lose as the more persistent, and far more crass, local boys, and she took only so long as she did in order not to cut them too much deeper than was necessary – she wanted to make it clear she disdained the leader of the pair for his near-abandonment of her sister the night before and his careless attitude towards her well-being upon being granted a second chance to make amends, but she did not wish to inflict any sort of permanent emotional scars or to part with <em>strong</em> ill-feeling), made her way into the little house.</p><p>She inhaled sharply as she opened the door with her elbow and quickly pressed her back against it to avoid being trampled by two of her younger brothers – she was pretty certain it was Tom and Charles, though they passed in a muddied blur – and an unfamiliar boy they'd obviously brought home for a playmate as they ran outside chasing an enormous snorting pig.</p><p>Susan's brow creased as her eyes followed them. They did not <em>own</em> a pig.</p><p>Then, shrugging, she made certain the eggs in her basket were not broken – her mother would have had a fit if they were.</p><p>Truly, it sounded as if Mother was already in the process of having one regardless. She was screaming the name of their servant-girl – <em>Rebecca! </em>– in frantic short – nearly <em>yapping</em> – tones which ranged between angrily desperate and the sort of noise one might employ when calling a goose.</p><p>"Mother?" called Susan.</p><p>"Rebecca!"</p><p>"No, Mother, it's me – <em>Susan</em> – I'm back with the eggs."</p><p>"Oh, and about time, too – your brothers will be wanting to eat."</p><p>"Aye, Richard and John perhaps – if they're still within." And she told her mother she had just seen the other two (she was<em> almost</em> sure it was them) leaving. She decided not to mention the pig.</p><p>There was a great deal of cursing, followed by another sharp, "<em>Rebecca</em>!"</p><p>"Mother, where is <em>Fanny</em>, for mercy's sake?"</p><p>"Where do you think?" huffed the harried woman, nudging her daughter aside to reach for the handle of a wooden spoon half stuck in something bubbling on the stove which did not – in truth – smell very nice. "She is upstairs with one of her headaches. I knew I shouldn't have let you both go dancing last night. You, I especially should not – fifteen is too young to be out. You should not <em>be</em> out. Not in any sense of the word. Not <em>out</em>. Not when you ought to be making yourself useful at home. But to let someone so prone to falling ill out alone..."</p><p>"You know William thinks Fanny ought to dance more – it is the only decent exercise to do her any good apart from occasionally walking. And you know what the dockyard air is to her lungs."</p><p>"I let her and you go, did I not?" Her expression was stern; it would have been sterner still if Susan had not invoked William, their eldest brother, whose feelings their mother was a great deal more keen on than those of her daughters'. "And where is my little slug-a-bed now? Graciously helping me as she should?"</p><p>"She's <em>ill</em>," protested Susan, convinced by the knowledge of her sister's character that Fanny would not only be helping if she could, but making herself entirely indispensable in the extremity of her helping. It was not her fault her head sometimes began to throb and her eyesight blurred and made her unable to lift her head very easily.</p><p>"She's well enough to be up by this hour."</p><p>Susan set down the egg basket. "I'll go up and check on her."</p><p>"No, you won't either! You'll stay here and–" But Susan had fled; her galumphing footsteps could already be heard on the stairs. "Oh! Am I to do <em>everything</em>? Susan! Susan! Come back down here at once!" The odour from the pot she stirred reached her nose and she winced. "Ooh! <em>Rebecca</em>!"</p><hr/><p>Susan groaned as she entered the room the girls of the family shared on the upper floor and found it flooded with sunlight. Fanny had an arm over her face and was turned away from the window, for whatever little good that would do in easing her suffering.</p><p>"What ninny opened those?" demanded Susan.</p><p>"Me!" cried a little pipsqueak voice almost level with the mattress Fanny was sprawled across limply. "I like it bright inside!"</p><p>Their little sister Betsey was marching around with... Susan momentarily panicked at the flash of silver, convinced Betsey had stolen the silver knife Mary gave them upon her deathbed – again. She was always after that knife, like a magpie. But it was not the knife. Still, what it was was almost as bad. A copper pot with a tarnished silver handle, taken from the good lord only knew where. Possibly it did not even belong to them at all and she'd borrowed it from an absent neighbour's home. And a dirty wooden spoon. <em>That </em>would be one of theirs, for certain. What spoons they had were always dirty.</p><p>The beaming child began – as she had obviously been doing prior to Susan's entrance – banging the pot with the spoon.</p><p>Fanny groaned but did not move.</p><p>"Betsey – you wicked thing! You wild beast!" Susan lunged forward and pried the spoon from the – now screaming – little girl's fingers. "Stop it at once! Think of poor Fanny!"</p><p>The little girl finally fled, wailing for their mother.</p><p>Slowly, Fanny sat up. "Mother will be very cross, Susan."</p><p>Indeed, for all the affection their mother withheld from the two of them for the unforgivable crime of not being one of her precious boys, she doted on Betsey. Perhaps losing Mary had caused this, somehow. Or Mrs. Price saw something of her own child-self in Betsey. Whatever the cause, she was particularly fond of the tiny girl these days, no matter what mischief she caused.</p><p>Susan stomped over to the windows and drew the curtains emphatically. "And you just letting her bang like that."</p><p>"Well..." Fanny pressed a hand to her forehead, pushing back a few pale curls. "I thought she'd grow tired of it."</p><p>"<em>Betsey</em>, grow tired of making nose?"</p><p>"Wishful thinking, I suppose."</p><p>"Oh, Fanny, you look so pale." It was apparent, even in the freshly restored darkness of the room.</p><p>"I'm all right." But she would have said as much if she were bleeding to death, and <em>believed</em> it, too.</p><p>Downstairs, they could hear their mother loudly consoling Betsey and screaming for Rebecca in turns. Doors slammed at every pause and interval. There was creaking and wind and hardly two blessed seconds of peace to follow every unpleasant sound. And here was Fanny enduring her agony without a word of protest as she always did.</p><p>"You won't guess who I saw when I was fetching the eggs."</p><p>"Father, coming out of the tavern?"</p><p>Susan made a face. "See? I knew you wouldn't guess."</p><p>She sighed softly and leaned back. "Please – <em>my head</em>. It's all right, really, but I can't <em>think</em>. Just tell me, dear."</p><p>"The young man who sat with you last night, and I let him see exactly what I thought of him."</p><p>Fanny looked at her sister, eyes briefly losing a little of their glassiness and focusing. "Oh, Susie, I hope not <em>exactly</em>."</p><p>"Oh, yes, indeed – I snubbed him. Or tried to. Cut him dead without a word when we met near the harbour."</p><p>"That wasn't very good of you."</p><p>"Nor was it good of him to abandon you the moment I turned up."</p><p>"No, but he was attentive in his way, and he meant to be kind – you could see it in his face." She sat up again with some difficultly. "Susan, he's obviously not <em>from</em> here; he's a guest and someone important, and your elder, it wasn't<em> right</em> of you to disrespect him."</p><p>"You're only worried he won't ask you to dance, come next assembly night – not if he's cross with me," Susan teased cheekily, in order to hide the rising guilt she felt.</p><p>The truth was Fanny's good opinion meant everything to her, and she'd wrongly anticipated a sort of sombre praise for her actions, not a reprimand.</p><p>But she was always wrong when it came those things, and Fanny, though of a more gentle disposition and finer (if not <em>refined</em>, poor soul) character than their mother, did share one grating thing in common with the woman who'd birthed her beyond an obvious namesake – she <em>also</em> loved their eldest brother best. Even the amber cross she always wore on a bit of ribbon was a gift from this favourite oldest sibling. Whenever William was here, safe at home, Fanny's affections were all employed towards him with everyone else cast out onto the fringes of her strained, dutiful love. She did not mean to leave Susan out, perhaps no more than the gentleman from earlier meant to be cruel in his ignoring her at the dance.</p><p>But whatever stuff people were made of, William and Fanny were created from the same stock, save that the one had good health and the other poor. They gravitated to one another, innocently immune to the – quite often desperate – pull of those whose souls were made of something else entirely yet longed to be part of them.</p><p>Anyway, William was away at the moment – he was a midshipman now, gone off to sea – and Susan had been gradually wedging herself into his normally occupied place beside Fanny; when she was not invoking their absent brother's name to her elder sister's advantage with their mother, she was trying to pretend he did not exist within the shallow oasis she tried to create at the centre of their little noisy world.</p><p>This was a dreadful setback for her.</p><p>A sob escaped Susan, and Fanny reached for her, pulling her down beside herself and slipping her arm around her sister consolingly.</p><p>"Perhaps I just did it because I knew I'd never be in a position where what I thought mattered to anyone important – not again," she murmured into the flat, musty pillows. "I'll have no one <em>worth</em> snubbing in Portsmouth after this. I can't make the same mistake twice in that case, can I?"</p><p>"It's all right – the fault was on both sides," murmured Fanny. "He might have been more genteel himself. But you shouldn't go about cutting people dead on my account."</p><p>Susan rolled over so that their noses nearly touched and placed a hand over one of Fanny's ears, hoping to muffle the endless noise for her.</p><p>And they rested there, together, for a while, breathing slowly and trying to find tranquillity in each other's comfort amidst the further slamming of doors, the younger brothers returning and – it sounded like – bringing the pig back with them, which their mother threatened to make into bacon for Mr. Price's breakfast if Rebecca would ever turn up and help her.</p><hr/><p>And it might have ended there.</p><p>But it didn't.</p><p>Because Tom Bertram, despite himself, after getting his fill of the racing news and concluding there was nothing to do about getting wagers placed just then, that it might have to wait a little while, inquired after the girl with the basket, and her pale elder sister.</p><p><em>Price</em> was the name he was given, for his pains (and unhappily parted with coin, in one case); he judged it to be familiar to himself but could not place it. Not quite.</p><p>Then the subject of the mother of the family came up. And who was she before? To which family had she belonged? Was she local? The question was natural enough.</p><p>And the answer made Tom start.</p><p><em>Ward</em>.</p><p>She'd had the same surname in her maidenhood as his own mother!</p><p>But surely... There were <em>other</em> Wards, presumably, out there, someplace or other...it could be...</p><p>Alas, no, because even from people who did not know Mrs. Price very well, or think much of her, Tom could – and did – gather enough basic information to conclude without shadow of doubt she was sister to Mrs. Bertram and Mrs. Norris.</p><p><em>They'd</em> simply wed in an upwards direction and she had gone farther down in the world.</p><p>The sickly creepmouse who'd snagged Tom's sympathizes was a <em>relation</em>.</p><p>He had a cousin.</p><p>Actually, it was probable, he had <em>many</em> cousins – they were said to be a large family.</p><p>Armed with this new knowledge, he ran into the room where Yates was dozing in a upholstered chair with a copy of <em>Lover's Vows</em> in his lap and a line of drool running down his chin.</p><p>"Yates!" he cried, reaching down to grab the man's knee and roughly shaking his companion. "Wake up."</p><p>He sniffed. "What's amiss?"</p><p>"I have relations I have never met."</p><p>He blinked pleasantly. "So've I, my good man; they live in Scotland. The family doesn't talk about them much, except at Christmas."</p><p>"No, I mean <em>here</em>, John, in Portsmouth – the child we encountered this morning on our walk is the daughter of my mother's sister."</p><p>"We should drop in and take tea with them tomorrow, perhaps."</p><p>Tom halted – the idea had not crossed his mind, but now that it had been suggested it seemed rather a decent one. "<em>Yes</em>," he said, slowly warming to the notion. "I don't suppose it would be too difficult to find out where they're living."</p><p>"Will they be glad of your coming, do you think?"</p><p>Even after being snubbed that morning, he honestly couldn't for the life of him imagine why <em>not</em>, and said as much to Yates.</p><p>Imagination was decidedly<em> not </em>– at least in those early days – Tom's strongest attribute.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. With Love, From Portsmouth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Two:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>With Love, From Portsmouth</em>
</p><p>Tom was obliged to wait outside the door of the Prices' residence several minutes longer than he'd anticipated. He had some hope of introducing himself and Mr. Yates – who was, for his own part, growing rather uneasy and doubtless very much regretting having put this notion into his companion's head to begin with – when the door swung open at last and a servant girl of some sort in a crooked cap and dusty apron emerged dragging a pig by the scruff of his neck and swearing profusely while three little boys (whose faces all looked like they'd been rubbed over with soot from the fireplace) sobbed and begged her to let them keep the snorting, oinking animal.</p><p>But instead of being noticed and invited in, Tom was backed out into the narrow street and Yates – a step or two behind him – was then forced to decide if he preferred to have the toe of his boot run over by a cart's wheel or a by heavy hoof.</p><p>The door was left ajar, and a pert little girl's voice – with a superior nasality in its high-pitched tone – bleated, "Mum-<em>mah</em>! Rebecca has left the door open again."</p><p>"We've got the wrong house," Yates suggested.</p><p>"It's the right place, I tell you," insisted Tom, rolling his eyes. "Depend upon it."</p><p>The tattle-tale girl's face appeared in the gap between the open door and the dark home within – it was cleaner and whiter than the boys' had been, but not by much. She had light eyes like the two sisters Tom had met already, but her hair was darker and much longer. Her dress was shorter and shapeless, and her – very visible – feet were bare.</p><p>Tom cleared his throat and removed his top hat. "Good afternoon."</p><p>"What're<em> you</em> wanting, then?" sniffed the girl.</p><p>"I've come to call on..." He paused, reflecting. Would it be acceptable to simply say 'Fanny', since he recalled her name as her sister said it at the dance? Or must he say <em>Miss Price</em>? Surely it could not make too much difference to these sorts of persons. But the little girl herself was surely also a Miss Price, as was the one who'd snubbed him at the harbour, and if he wanted the elder, sickly one, he must surely find some way to make himself more clear in his meaning. As the eldest girl in the family (surely Fanny was the oldest of her sisters?), she couldn't reasonably be <em>Miss Fanny Price</em>, not without insult, but supposing he guessed wrongly? Besides, if they were all his relations, he was here to call on <em>all</em> of them, really – not just the creepmouse from the dance. "That is, child, I expect your mother – Mrs. Price – is within? I am her nephew, come to pay a visit."</p><p>Yates chimed in, "She shall be very glad to see him, I'm sure." Then he made an inward shooing motion. "So be off, then, and tell her, er, <em>little one</em>." He clapped his hands together when she did not move. "Haste, haste."</p><p>Tom inclined his head slightly. "Oh, steady <em>on</em>, John."</p><p>"That's <em>Rebecca's</em> job," snipped the child, her small lips pursed. "Letting people in is what she's paid for – and she's just gone out – <em>I</em> don't have to let you inside." And she closed the door in their astonished faces.</p><p>"Cheek!" cried Yates.</p><p>Tom reached out to knock again, but his curled knuckles barely made contact with the worn wood of the door before it opened again.</p><p>"Betsey," a familiar, slightly hoarse – yet very sweet – voice was saying as the knob turned and the (partially broken) knocker rocked precariously, "that isn't very <em>nice</em>."</p><p>And the creepmouse herself was there, as pale and shabby as she'd been at the dance, and in an even crummier dress (judging by Yates' reaction, anyway). "Pardon me, sirs; Betsey did not mean to–" She stopped, recognition widening her eyes and intensifying her gaze. "Oh, it's <em>you</em>, sir."</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>!" crooned Tom cheerily, perhaps with too much familiarity after only the one meeting, waving his top hat. "So good to see you again! How do you do?"</p><p>She was too shocked and – indeed – <em>frightened</em> to say anything further. Whatever could the gentleman be after, coming here?</p><p>"Forgive me," he laughed, "I've quite forgotten to make proper introductions – I've learned, since we saw one another last, that our mothers were girls together – <em>sisters</em>, in fact, if you can believe it! Miss Wards. They and my Aunt Norris, who was also a Miss Ward, naturally. All Miss Wards together! And I thought, hang it all, I'll drop in for tea. Relations ought to be glad of seeing each other unexpectedly."</p><p>She still could not speak, not yet. But her eyes landed, for a moment, on Yates, silently asking – or so it seemed – if he was a cousin as well.</p><p>"Oh! No, no." Tom gestured at John with his hat. "This is only my friend, Mr. Yates – no relation to you lot, I'm afraid. Make yourself quite easy on that front."</p><p>"I..." She managed at last. "Forgive me – I'm very glad to meet you, cousin."</p><p>"Whoever is that at the door?" Mrs. Price came up behind Fanny. "If Rebecca would only–" She halted, breath caught up at once at the sight of the fancy gentlemen. She might have thought her sons were in some trouble – people had turned up with ill words regarding their view on her skills in minding them before, but never anyone of much consequence. "May we help you?"</p><p>"Mother," Fanny said, turning to her, eyes lowered demurely, "this gentleman here is your nephew, a Mr.–" She hesitated. "You'll have to forgive me once more, cousin – I did not get your name."</p><p>"Tom Bertram at your service." He extended a hand, in both their general directions, offering it to whichever was quick enough to grab it first.</p><p>Mrs. Price's mouth parted – the name was familiar to her. She took the hand in her own. "You are Maria's eldest son? Bless me, but this <em>is</em> unexpected. I have not heard from Maria in – oh – can it be twenty years so soon?" She nudged Fanny aside, not harshly, yet perhaps not with as much concern for the delicacy of that particular one of her children as she ought to have reasonably employed. "Come in, do come in at once" – she gave his wrist a tug – "we were just about to sit down to tea if the boys ever come home and Rebecca ever thinks to set the kettle to boiling. I'm trying to get something cooked for Mr. Price before he becomes cross, but..." She let go of his hand in order to toss both of hers in the air despairingly. "We shall see how I must get on with that task, yes?"</p><p>Upon stepping inside, Tom quickly ascertained that the house was pitifully small, painfully cramped, rather damp, undeniably smelly, and distressingly ugly – it was an ugliness of an almost unbearable degree to one who had always been (often at the expense of his father's good will as well as his pocket) shamelessly extravagant in his personal indulgences. Even Yates was looking about with an expression that asked what sort of relations were <em>these</em> that Tom had come to call on. Who could live comfortably in such a place?</p><p>"Well," continued Mrs. Price, rising up onto her toes (she was in her stocking feet, it turned out) to kiss Tom's cheek (which was more the sort of welcome he'd been expecting and was thus encouraged by), "I'm very glad to see you, of course, and behold what a handsome boy my sister has had – but I'm perplexed. Quite perplexed. Why should my dear Maria send you to us – without any warning, mind – when we had ended our past correspondence on such ugly terms as we did?"</p><p>Tom winced. He had not considered such might be the case.</p><p>To his surprise, it was Fanny who intervened on his behalf. Her hand went to her mother's arm in a slow, trembling gesture. "I do not think she <em>sent</em> him, Mother – this is the result of a chance meeting. He has learned of us because he saw me out of sorts on Assembly Night, and met Susan the once after when she was buying eggs, and had made some enquiries."</p><p>"Oh." Mrs. Price put her hand to her heart and exhaled heavily. "How extraordinary. You <em>do</em> both favour your aunt, you know. Imagine that. Such an odd thing to happen. But you're welcome here, of course." Now she noticed Yates. "Your brother?"</p><p>Yates shook his head. "Only a merry travelling companion, I'm afraid – his brother resides, usually, at Thornton Lacey these days."</p><p>"Shall we adjourn to the table now?" Tom asked next. "Or..." He discerned, as it was impossible to miss, that tea might be late in coming. "Or, that is, to the parlour to–" He stopped again. Supposing this house, among its other overt deficiencies, should not <em>have</em> a parlour? Supposing people such as these poor relations who may as well have sprung magically into existence had never heard of such a room? At last, he settled on, "May one sit someplace? We've been standing outside a good while."</p><p>"Of course," said Mrs. Price. "Fanny, see your cousin is seated comfortably – you can put him in my chair by the fire." She had – it seemed – already forgotten Yates.</p><p>Mrs. Price's chair was opposite to that of a scowling Mr. Price who – after loudly demanding whether there was going to be any tea or if he should simply go to the Crown early this evening and spare himself the fruitless waiting – snarled, "And who are <em>you</em>?" at Tom.</p><p>"Father," Fanny said meekly, "this is Tom Bertram – he is a relation of Mother's."</p><p>Tom stiffened but – to his credit – he did not recoil. What sort of a man was this? Red-nosed, gouty, sweaty, scabby, and odorous, he embodied every imaginable negative stereotype of a crude, low-class sailor.</p><p>"And I suppose a fine gentleman such as yourself" – and the words dripped with sarcasm – "has never got your sea-legs? Only life for a real man you know, at sea. Only pansies spent their whole life on land."</p><p>"Indeed, I have been at sea, sir," said Tom, back straighter in the chair. "I've gone with my father to Antigua." He did not mention that he'd loathed the voyage, because, both ways, he had gotten sick over the side and the sailors' diet and the cook's questionable choices had disagreed with his bowels, and had no desire ever to repeat the experience. "It was certainly..." – he coughed delicately – "...<em>memorable</em>. I shall never forget it so long as I live."</p><p>Mr. Price seemed considerably less repulsed by him after hearing this, and coughed out something to the effect of, "Good man," before grabbing an iron poker and jabbing madly at the coals.</p><p>Embers scattered, bouncing out of the grate like glowing jewels.</p><p>"Father, you'll burn the carpet again!" And suddenly Susan Price was in the room, too. Her brow lifted when she saw Tom sitting in her mother's chair, but instead of approaching him she busied herself trying to take the poker away from her father who slurred a less than flattering opinion of her and struggled against her herculean efforts.</p><p>"Susan, stop. You'll have to let him<em> be</em> this time – never mind the carpet!" Fanny tried to intervene for Susan's sake, before there could be a commotion, and was – with one accidental blow on her father's end – flung backwards into Tom's lap.</p><p>"Oh, <em>Fanny</em>!" Susan screamed and let go of their father, rushing to the side of the chair in a near panic just as Tom was giving Fanny a reassuring pat on the arm and setting her back onto her feet.</p><p>"You're all right, then." He gave her a pleasant half smile.</p><p>Fanny nodded shakily.</p><p>Susan looked askance at Tom, then glanced back at their father, who was panting heavily and appeared very cross, and burst into tears, fleeing the room.</p><p>Yates – who had not been paying attention until he heard screaming and crying – came over to ask what that ruckus had been all about.</p><p>Fanny was still trembling.</p><p>Tom had enough tact – <em>just</em> enough, perhaps – not to point out that Mr. Price was visibly drunk or to recap the nonsensical quarrel over the coals and the carpet which had just occurred.</p><p>Instead, he shrugged.</p><p>Tea was eventually served. It was a mean tea by Tom's usual standards, but that much he had anticipated, and none of the rest of the family seemed to notice there was anything amiss about it. Only Yates sniffed at whatever he was given and made claims of having eaten rather a large lunch despite a loudly rumbling stomach suggesting otherwise.</p><p>Mr. Price ate heartily for a man who was almost too sloshed to hold a knife. Though, to be sure, he used his fingers much more than he did any utensils.</p><p>Susan came back down, and was sitting across from Tom and Fanny, sandwiched between two of her little brothers, but she wouldn't meet anyone's eye. Her own eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks looked salt-burned.</p><p>Fanny, for her part, though she tried not to, looked wretched. Eating very little – nibbling a bit at some dry, crumby biscuits and taking no meat – she shrank back into herself unless asked a direct question, which wasn't too often, since most the family was focused either on quarrelling with each other or talking to Tom and Yates.</p><p>Mr. Price didn't acknowledge either Susan or Fanny at the table except to make a passing coarse joke at Fanny's expense that even Tom's jovial, teasing nature could not find much excuse for.</p><p>What call, he wondered, with vague disapproval, had there been for that?</p><p>Betsey cried inconsolably that the guests had more of the nicer parts of tea than she did, and Mrs. Price – drawing the child, whose face was dripping with snot, into her lap – coddled her and promised she should have something twice as nice next time, that the present company was simply unexpected and so what could be done?</p><p>Biting onto his lower lip pensively, Tom ran a finger along what was supposed to be a clean bowl for him to put some manner of pudding in once Rebecca had served it, and it was greasy with traces of grime.</p><p>He happened to catch Fanny glancing up at him sombrely as he was doing this and pulled a silly cross-eyed facial expression that made her smile and turn away again.</p><p>Yates deemed his portion of the pudding acceptable, which only made Betsey sob louder.</p><p>Fanny gave <em>her</em> pudding to Betsey, which quieted her for a minute or so, and reached across the table for a bun instead, only to prove too slow, her brother Charles snagging the last two buns before her fingers could make contact.</p><p>They were both promptly stuffed into the boy's mouth before his mother could half-heartedly protest his greediness.</p><p>Tom was not in expectation of Susan (or of anybody, really, at this point) seeing himself and Yates to the door once the dining was over and most of the boys had gone upstairs (if not to sleep, then at least to be out of their father's way) while Betsey took advantage of the extra square or two of space and proceeded to roll about on the carpet, belly-up, like an oversize cat. <em>Especially</em> not, as nobody save Mrs. Price and Fanny even acted as if they'd <em>heard </em>him say good evening and that they'd be off. His coming or going or being with them was all one and the same to the Price family at large. But see them out Susan did, seething with embarrassment. Snubbing him herself, when she did not know him for a relation, was one thing – what he had witnessed today... Oh, that was something else entirely.</p><p>"What you must think of us," she murmured, holding open the door and shaking her head. "What you must think of the whole sorry lot of us."</p><p>If Tom had been a different sort of man, he might have reassured her – might even have lied and said there was nothing for her to feel ashamed about. But he was not a different sort of man. Not at all. And though he left her with an amiable wink, showing no ill will, she was clearly very little comforted.</p><hr/><p>"We will not see our fancy cousin again, will we?" Susan said, looking out the window of their bedroom later that night.</p><p>Fanny was on the mattress, struggling to sew by weak candlelight, and with Betsey's head resting heavily in her lap. "I don't know – perhaps we shan't."</p><p>"How he<em> looked</em> when Father flung you back over that quarrel about the coals!"</p><p>Jabbing her needle into a small, home-made pincushion, Fanny sighed, "Susie, you were in no position to see how he looked in that moment – and I uniquely was – he was <em>surprised</em>, that is all. We did not repulse him any more than could be expected, considering what he is and what we are."</p><p>"Thinks he's so much better than us."</p><p>"If he thought that, he wouldn't have visited at all."</p><p>"I'm so sorry about the coals, Fanny – I hadn't imagined Father would strike out at <em>you</em>. He knows you're not well."</p><p>"It was nothing."</p><p>Susan swallowed. "But it was <em>something</em> – I imagine our cousin has never seen someone so drunk."</p><p>Fanny snorted. "Of that much, I'd wager you're very wrong. If you told me that the young man who took tea with us today has never touched drink, has never seen people drink while drinking himself, I'd say you must be a little mad."</p><p>"You always are right about people," conceded Susan, "while I never am."</p><p>"It's not so great a talent – it's just paying attention." Fanny smiled. "He smelled faintly of drink on Assembly Night, when he sat next to me."</p><p>Susan put her hand over her mouth to suppress a chortle.</p><p>And, having restored her sister's spirits on some level at least, Fanny could at last be satisfied and – glancing down at the snoring, carefree Betsey as she nudged her head from her thighs down onto a pillow – think of sleeping herself.</p><hr/><p>Tom was pacing the length of the room, jabbering on, while Yates, dangling upside down off the end of an upholstered chair, wished he were stricken – at least for an hour or so – deaf.</p><p>"D'you know, Yates, my father has some nerve."</p><p>He grunted.</p><p>Tom went on, "Here we have relatives, my good mother's own people, in such squalor as you saw yesterday, living in a deplorable state, clearly uneducated and unaccustomed to bathing at regular intervals, and he has done nothing for them – indeed I never heard of them before now – and <em>he</em> has the gall to scold <em>me </em>for my gambling debts."</p><p>"Did you not lose so much money that most of your younger brother's living was spent paying it off?"</p><p>Tom made a dismissive noise. It was not so bad as all that! He'd not <em>beggared </em>his brother, not quite. "Hardly the point, John. The point is..." He trailed off, trying – in his state of indignation – to recall exactly what the point was. "The point is he's hardly perfect, his conduct is not above reproach, yet he sees fit to pick unceasingly at my small flaws."</p><p>"Does it really matter so much?"</p><p>"Of course it does – think of poor little Fanny Price! She is sickly. And what has been done for her? <em>Nothing</em>!</p><p>"Indeed, if word travelled home that the poor girl had died, the whole family would merely blink – say something about Mrs. Price needing to be much pitied, to be sure, never easy losing one's children, what – and then have breakfast without another thought."</p><p>Yates slipped out of the chair and onto the floor, nearly head first. "<em>Ouch</em>."</p><p>Tom did not notice.</p><p>"And did you see how little she ate? That cannot be good for her constitution. My father could well afford to pay for more food for that girl's table. My gambling alone has surely not prevented his ability to do that – he simply chose not to. And I think it very shabby of him."</p><p>"My good fellow," sighed Yates, "forgive me, but you've spoken of nothing but your concern for the eldest Miss Price since we took tea with them, and the subject is quite worn out."</p><p>Tom glared.</p><p>"Good God, man, one would think you were falling in love her."</p><p>His glare rapidly softening, Tom arched an eyebrow. "In love?" he repeated, pausing before the fireplace and resting a hand on the mantelpiece. "What a strange idea, Yates."</p><p>"I just meant–"</p><p>"You know, it would serve my father right if I <em>did</em> fall in love with her."</p><p>"Would give the poor old gentleman quite a shock, I imagine," said Yates.</p><p>Tom could not let the thought go. He turned to look at Mr. Yates again, who was now flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. "It would be the first time in my life I'd have a claim to moral superiority over him."</p><p>"But you're not really in love with her." He paused, uncertain. "That is... <em>Are</em> you?"</p><p>"No, not yet, but who's to say I couldn't be?" Tom said animatedly. "There's no harm in looking to see if I can like her, is there? Calling upon one's relations in order to better know them?"</p><p>"As long as you do not make me return to that frightful house <em>with</em> you, I care little enough."</p><p>"I can just imagine my father's face if I meant to <em>marry</em> her, if I brought her home with me."</p><p>"Too bad she is such a stunted little thing," Yates remarked. "Her sister might be more likely to win your family over, once they saw what a pretty, lively creature she is. And she doesn't look as if she'll keel over before you get her to the alter, either. By comparison, your Fanny is not very hardy."</p><p>"Susan is far too young for my consideration" – he waved the idea off – "only a clever-tongued child. I've entirely given up younger sisters after the disaster with the <em>Miss Sneyds</em> – d'you remember that?"</p><p>"She is <em>out</em>, though, Bertram – she attends balls."</p><p>"That's true enough, but it would be badly done of me to pass over the one most put upon – the one most in need of extraction from this backwater – for the younger simply because she is healthier. She is also more coarse, more hardened by this place."</p><p>"So it is certainly Fanny you intend to like if the looking proves agreeable?"</p><p>Tom nodded. "Just so. But, mind you, not a word of this to anyone – it may come to nothing." He did not like to think of raising false expectations in the cousins only to learn too late he could not tolerate any of them after all, even poor Fanny, and have to grieve them by his parting ways from them forever. His nature was to be rash, but he was not stupid, nor heartless.</p><p>"Your father will be expecting you home, returned to Mansfield, before you have time to make up your mind, though, will he not?"</p><p>"<em>Damn</em>," muttered Tom, and thought very hard for a moment. "Well," he concluded at last, "I shall write to him that I have been detained. I need not say with what."</p><p>"Then what <em>will</em> you say?"</p><p>"I will say," Tom mulled, stroking his chin, "what will I say?" He smiled. "I know. I shall say nothing at all." It need be only a short letter, assuring the family he was not dead or lost. "It's enough to simply wish them well; and I will send them all my love from Portsmouth."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chances, Slightly Better Than None</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Three:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Chances, Slightly Better Than None</em>
</p><p>After dispatching a letter homeward, Tom made quick work of integrating himself as a near regular within the Price household.</p><p>The first week, he made merry with the little boys – delighted to find that one had the same namesake as himself and equally delighted to fill in the gap left by their two eldest brothers, William and Sam, who were away at sea – and regarded the ever-watchful Fanny from the corner of his eye. Did she know what he was about? It was difficult to discern. Although, to be sure, it was plain enough she saw everything he did in her presence, that no action, for good or for ill, could avoid – at the very least – her passing gaze; even when she was too fatigued to come downstairs, her gentle footsteps could be heard under the din, by way of creaking, if one listened closely enough. And if he took her brothers down to the harbour, she watched them go from the window.</p><p>Betsey did not take to Tom at first, a seething childish resentment of his presence always burning within her, until he began – to the small girl's great astonishment – to bring small, pretty presents with him when he came, enough for them all, which he doled out generously. She began to see the pleasanter side of having a rich relation come calling and was thus satisfied.</p><p>Susan was pleased, too, because Betsey's passion for her new playthings kept her from stealing the silver knife given to her by their late sister Mary.</p><p>Tom became quite accustomed to the greeting, "What did you bring me?" from Betsey whenever he entered their house, as well as to immediately having his pockets pawed at, despite Susan and Fanny repeatedly reprimanding her for it.</p><p>The second week, Tom – already having won over Mr. Price, despite the considerable odds, by proving himself unafraid to get his hands dirty playing with the boys – moved smoothly onto Mrs. Price. Eldest sons, heirs, are raised to be charming. It came as natural as swimming would do for a fish. He made pointed enquires as to if her elder girls got out very much, if they shouldn't like a gentleman to escort them on a nice walk the next time there were errands that needed doing.</p><p>And thusly was Mrs. Price won twice as quickly and with twice as much good will as her husband.</p><p>Soon Tom was to be seen strolling about Portsmouth with Susan on one of his arms and Fanny on the other.</p><p>Fanny said very little, but she seemed glad enough to take the air and to be released from the cramped house.</p><p>Susan said rather a lot. Relieved that Tom did not think himself too good for them after all, that he was not horrified by the state of their living and their father's slovenly drunkenness, she revised her opinion of him, and was doubly cheerful so as to make up for lost time.</p><p>"I have heard a most dreadful rumour, Mr. Bertram," she said merrily.</p><p>"If it's that nonsense about myself and Yates again," laughed Tom, tossing back his head, "let me only say that <em>had </em>I been inclined that way I could do a great deal better than <em>John Yates</em>." He glanced over his shoulder – Yates, though he would not go near the Prices' house again, had no objection to walking a few steps behind his companion's relations when they were out of doors – and called, "No offence, old bean!"</p><p>"None taken!" Yates called back over the wind. "Indeed, I've no need of you in such a regard – I'm quite in love with another. Or very nearly."</p><p>"You don't say! First <em>I've</em> heard of it – you've been keeping secrets from me!" exclaimed Tom. "Who is it?"</p><p>"A young woman."</p><p>He rolled his eyes. "Yes, I took as much for granted, John."</p><p>"A<em> most</em> handsome girl I met at a masque party in London thrown by the Rushworths – not a jolly lot, but very wealthy – I say, one of them is married into your family, is he not, Tom?" He blew on his hands and rubbed them together. "At any rate, she was very fair, dressed like one of those exotic tropical birds with a feathered mask."</p><p>Tom halted. "Oi, hang <em>on</em>! Blonde, about middling height, big nose?"</p><p>"Yes, that's the lassie!" Yates beamed. "What I love best about her is her large..." He lifted his hands in a cupping gesture close to his chest, about to finish his sentence, when Tom cut him off.</p><p>"That happens to be my<em> sister</em>, you idiot!"</p><p>"...<em>nostrils</em>," he came up with, colouring. "I do so love large nostrils on a woman. Makes them look regal."</p><p>"You're most fortunate I hold you in fair regard and it takes too much effort to break in a new acquaintance," chuckled Tom, beginning to walk again.</p><p>"That is<em> not</em>," said Susan, when she could, "the rumour I heard."</p><p>"Ah – so what was it? I am keen to know now."</p><p>"They're all saying that when you were in Antigua, you were driven near mad by the culture shock, and your father's dealings with slaves – that you keep a sketchbook with drawings of all the ghastly horrors you encountered abroad."</p><p>Shaken with laughter, Tom nearly had to let go of them both in order to bend over and gasp out in his merriment, "Can you be <em>serious </em>in this?"</p><p>"You <em>do</em> keep a sketchbook," Susan remarked coyly. "I have seen you with it."</p><p>"Do you really wish to know what manner of things I have sketched out?"</p><p>"I expect it cannot be as exciting as the stories spread, and we're sure to be disappointed, but yes – curiously does burn within me."</p><p>"Come..." Tom escorted the girls to a low stone wall where they might sit and, reaching into a satchel he'd carried along, lifted out a leather-covered sketchbook filled with thick, unlined cream-coloured paper. "See for yourself."</p><p>Fanny scooted closer; Susan leaned sideways over his arm to better view the pages.</p><p>They were landscapes, mostly.</p><p>"I had a bad time of it in Antigua," Tom admitted, "but that was because I was homesick – for <em>England</em>, if not for Mansfield itself – because I despised being in a muddy hut living a life I still deem fit only for elephants; I was not traumatized by seeing any slave trading – the only former slave I even<em> met</em> there was an aged, long-retired house-servant who, between ourselves, spoke rather good English."</p><p>Fanny smiled. "These are quite good."</p><p>"She <em>speaks</em>!" cried Tom with a playful inflection in his risen voice, turning a few pages. "Here, let me show you another and perhaps, my little creepmouse cousin, you shall be moved to speak to me again."</p><p>The following drawings, none of them full pages, were of a young man and two girls wearing filly bows and looking very prim about the mouth.</p><p>"My siblings," Tom told them. "Your other cousins – none of which are at Mansfield at the moment. Maria has married; Miss Julia Bertram – the one our own Mr. Yates has suddenly proclaimed his partiality towards, and my father will no doubt blame <em>me</em> for making a match of, though, with God as my witness, I had not a thing to do with it – is with her in London. They live on Wimpole Street."</p><p>"Your brother has a very kind face," Fanny remarked softly.</p><p>"I was trying to draw him looking cross," laughed Tom, "but I quite failed to capture it – this is his usual countenance, at any rate."</p><p>"This one is of you," said Fanny, at glimpsing the next page.</p><p>"Yes, a self portrait, I'm afraid." A guarded pause. "There's enough likeness, eh? I consulted a mirror several times to be sure of my own features."</p><p>"You do not draw yourself with a very forgiving eye," Fanny noted sombrely, seeing – drawn out bleakly across the page with an obvious heavy hand – only the grimmest assessment of Tom's most severe features and very little of his actual character. "Perhaps you were feeling melancholy when you did this one."</p><p>"<em>Oh</em>," Susan cried, an idea coming to her, "you should sketch <em>Fanny</em>. When you see our other cousins again, as you must do, even if it is not until you are next in London, you can take out your book and show them all how pretty she is."</p><p>Fanny looked away.</p><p>"She turns away," Susan went on earnestly, "because she thinks her illnesses make her an unfit subject – but she has always been beautiful, really. I've told everyone she would be so beautiful if she were not so often sick."</p><p>"Susie, pray," she managed, with a little rasp in her cracking voice, "<em>don't</em>. I cannot endure it."</p><p>Alas, the damage was quite done – Tom was resolved to draw Fanny at once if she could be made to pose for it.</p><p>Susan helped smooth out her sister's dress, while Yates remarked, unheeded, that it was a shame it was so 'damnable windy' and wouldn't it make Tom's eyes water if he attempted the sketch today and didn't settle on some other afternoon instead.</p><p>Fanny put her hands in her lap, resigned.</p><p>Before beginning, Tom came over and reached to unfasten the ribbon under her chin.</p><p>She flinched and gawked at his proximity, wide-eyed.</p><p>"Come now," he said, securely grabbing onto the ribbon and pulling it until it was undone despite her meek protests. "Don't be so shy."</p><p>"I do not think I can pose – indeed, now I say it aloud, I <em>know</em> I cannot."</p><p>"Oh, you can do well enough for this." And he lifted her bonnet from her head and handed it over to Susan, who was still rather giddy her suggestion was being so readily taken up.</p><p>"Perhaps we have been too long away from the house," she tried.</p><p>His thumb stroked her chin; his eyes stared unrelentingly into hers. "Don't you trust me?"</p><p>Part of her did, for – indeed – she sensed no wickedness in his nature, but the thought of him staring at her, seeing only her, so long as he worked on this little picture he'd set himself to doing, was mortifying. She was accustomed to looking more than she was to being looked at. There was also the most wretched sensation that she was being looked over, somehow, for more than just a drawing – for what purpose, she could not imagine, but Tom was <em>gauging</em> her. He was inspecting her as he might inspect a fine horse he was thinking of betting on. The lack of malice made it only <em>worse</em>, for it prevented her from having any right to rebuff such attentions.</p><p>His hand dropped, the tips of his fingers trailing along the amber cross just above the swell of her bosom. He pulled away before it could be considered too improper, and all he'd done was straighten the cross slightly, but Fanny's scarlet face could not be blamed entirely on the salty sea air or the cold.</p><hr/><p>Looking up from the drawing he'd done earlier, Tom sighed in a way that told Mr. Yates he desired conversation.</p><p>"I've quite decided I <em>want</em> her, Yates."</p><p>"Oh, yes?" Yates poured himself a drink and offered one to his companion, who accepted the outstretched glass eagerly.</p><p>"It cannot be wrong, can it?" Tom's little finger trailed the line where her cross met the start of her dress, accidentally smearing it. "<em>Damn</em>." Then, "I should be far more wrong if I was looking to like her only for the sake of showing my father what I think of him, and did not feel any real desire for her, should I not?"</p><p>"Indeed – your feelings and conduct are above reproach, especially in such a place as this."</p><p>"But poor little Fanny is like a skittish colt, too timid to allow me near her for very long – if it were not for the pleasure of taking her walking and a pitifully few innocent liberties I've seen fit to take, I should scarcely get to touch her at all." He sipped his drink and set the glass down again with a sigh. "John, you see a man before you who hardly knows what to do with himself."</p><p>"Buck up, my fine man," – and he clapped Tom's shoulder with one hand and raised his glass with the other – "you're sure to come out on top in the end. What woman worth having is going to reject <em>Thomas Bertram</em>?"</p><hr/><p>Tom's next visit to the Price household coincided with a most unpleasant torrential downpour. Everyone was kept inside, and none of them were in good spirits, each finding some grievance with another member of the family, which made them feel justified in laying the blame for the ill-fated day on the conscience of whoever was deemed most irksome in that grey hour, though none of them could rightly be accused of controlling the weather and bringing such misery as they all suffered together indiscriminately. But Tom's arrival single-handedly livened up their afternoon. It was he who suggested, despite the cramped quarters, a game of hide and seek. And – as it was quickly agreed to – Mr. Price was left, unharassed, to sleep off the effects of strong drink in his chair and to dream of the sea as the rain pelted the windowpane. Rebecca was not to be found, but Mrs. Price did not feel as overburdened as usual, as even Betsey had gone upstairs to play and was not tugging at her skirts or hanging off of her neck.</p><p>While they were all seeking hiding places, wedging themselves behind broken banisters, into cupboards and amongst the rubbish in cluttered corners, and Charles counted to one hundred rather faster than any of them deemed fair, Tom had a run in with Fanny, both of them making for the same little closet space that adjoined the girls' room to the boys'.</p><p>Creeping up behind her, he placed his hands over her eyes, and she nearly cried out, but he silenced her quickly, showing his face and putting a finger to his lips.</p><p>"Come," he whispered, offering her his hand. "We will hide together. And if good old Charlie<em> should</em> find us, we'll both jump out at him from either side and give the lad a funny little shock."</p><p>They soon heard Charles finding Betsey, who screamed that he had <em>not</em> found her, and the two then teaming up to find Susan and the rest.</p><p>All the while, Fanny became increasingly aware of Tom leaning over and fiddling with her hair, twisting a curl around his index finger, tucking another curl behind one of her ears.</p><p>"<em>Tom</em>," she whispered urgently, her tone low and breathy.</p><p>"Yes?" he murmured, inching nearer to her, the back of one of his hands brushing lingeringly against the thin sleeve of her dress as he breathed heavily down her neck.</p><p>"Charles is nearly to the door – you need to be over <em>there</em>, if you want to surprise him."</p><p>Even as he dutifully stepped apart from her in the darkness of the closet, she could sense his dejection, could be uncomfortably certain that he was not so keen on the prank now as he had been when he first suggested it.</p><hr/><p>Early evening ought to have brought a break in the clouds and a ray of faint pink sunlight to see Tom back to the inn. Instead, waiting outside the house was only the same heavy rain as had been pouring down on him when he arrived. Noah's flood itself, however, could not have prevented him from avoiding the possibility of spending a full night on whatever couch Mrs. Price might clear for him. The thought of being eaten alive by bugs and picking lice from his blankets put him too much in mind of Antigua and made him desperately homesick, as only the relative cleanliness of his and Yate's rooms at the inn might alleviate.</p><p>So he departed from them all, with the little ones hanging off him, begging him to stay for just an hour longer and ignoring their mother's pleas to 'pray not smoother their cousin and leave them with a suffocated gentleman on the rug for Rebecca to drag out later, to consider the dreadful inconvenience that would be for them all'.</p><p>Betsey surprised everyone by wanting to kiss him goodbye and urging Susan to lift her up so she might do so. And, laughingly, Tom kissed the little girl back with good will, declaring her his favourite darling of the whole family, and also gave Susan a brotherly kiss on the cheek.</p><p>Fanny was hanging back.</p><p>His eyes twinkled, settling on her over the heads of the others. "Have <em>you</em> no kiss goodbye for me, Fanny?"</p><p>Timidly stepping forward, she inclined her cheek slightly, with the vague expectation of the same manner of kiss he'd given Susan.</p><p>"No," he said lightly, a single eyebrow quirked, "but I think – given I am the one leaving your house – <em>you</em> ought to kiss <em>me</em>."</p><p>He had stooped slightly so she might easily reach his cheek, and she – resignedly – went to kiss him when he – at the very last moment – turned his head and kissed her full on the mouth in sight of everyone.</p><p>It was, in Tom's defence, a quick, harmless kiss lacking any obvious passion – so sweetly benign that even Mr. Price, staggering into the room still sloshed, could not be worked up into an alarm over it.</p><p>Entirely undisturbed, Mr. Price actually clapped his hands together and <em>laughed</em>, as if it were the funniest punchline to an unexpected joke he could have imagined, and was wholly ignorant of poor Fanny's complete mortification over this dreadful scene.</p><p>Shaking, she drew the back of her wrist to her mouth and emphatically <em>wiped</em>, looking at him reproachfully.</p><p>Tom, stung, rushed the last of his goodbyes and hurried out.</p><p>Hardly knowing what she was doing, Fanny followed.</p><p>Hearing her footsteps behind him, he stood in the narrow road – which was filled with enough water to cover the top of his boots – and turned.</p><p>Unable to bring herself to speak, she stared and finally croaked out something that might have been "<em>Why</em>?"</p><p>He seemed not to hear her, only taking in the cold distance in her expression. "Fanny, I–"</p><p>Whatever manner of explanation or apology he might have been about to utter was interrupted by Susan rushing from the house with a coat and throwing it over Fanny's shoulders, crying that she would catch her death out here on an evening like this.</p><hr/><p>While Fanny sat at the table that Rebecca (who had turned up at some point, and then gone away again, despite the weather) had only half cleared the dinner things from, Susan stood behind her and dried her hair with a slightly sooty towel (it was the cleanest one to be found at the moment and Susan was keen that her elder sister should not go to bed with wet hair and wake with a sick headache in the morning).</p><p>Mr. Price was by the fire again, slightly more clear-headed than he'd been only a few minutes before, and he grunted, "Fan?"</p><p>"Yes, Father?" She inclined her head while Susan rubbed at the dripping ends of her hair.</p><p>"You be careful with that fancy cousin from your mother's people, d'you hear?"</p><p>She nodded; Susan sighed and tossed the towel away.</p><p>"He's all right, good enough for what he is, <em>I'spoose</em>" – he burped – "but remember he's only slumming it up with our lot; he's not a Portsmouth man."</p><p>"It's a good thing," whispered Susan, meaning no harm, "that you don't fancy him, dearest one."</p><hr/><p>Fanny cried herself to sleep that night, and kept Susan from it for several hours (Betsey could have slept through a hurricane and was preoccupied with dreams such as little girls her age have, of satin slippers and a great deal of pink-coloured things and shiny little objects of silver and gold).</p><p>Rolling over upon the mattress, Susan put a consoling arm around her sister and squeezed gently. "Oh, Fanny, you <em>do</em> fancy him, don't you?"</p><p>"I wish I didn't," she sniffed miserably. "I <em>ache</em> to dislike him, to never think of him. I could bear all his teasing easily enough if I did not like him."</p><p>"Poor Fanny – you resolved to dislike him and couldn't manage it," she said sympathetically. "Your good heart won't let you, especially not when he's been so merry a playmate with us all."</p><p>"I <em>could</em> have," she sniffed again, swallowing back a sob, "my heart wouldn't have held me back – I wouldn't have let it – if only I felt I had a true reason to dislike him, some unbearable knowledge about his character." She rolled over so that she was facing Susan. "But he is not a rake, Susie, he's only <em>Tom Bertram</em>. Playful, harmless Mr. Bertram."</p><p>"Our wealthy cousin Mr. Bertram." She gave her another gentle squeeze. "He should not have kissed you – that was cruel."</p><p>"No."</p><p>Susan took this to be agreement, but that was not where Fanny's thoughts were.</p><p>It was not cruelty; it was <em>thoughtlessness</em>, she privately concluded and resolved to keep to herself, which was worse.</p><hr/><p>Drinking in the common room of the inn, Tom was speaking to Yates despondently about what he judged must only be considered a failure with Fanny Price.</p><p>"Perhaps I have dodged some unpleasantness – it cannot be all bad that I repulse her so. Better to know before I declare my intentions, is it not? She's made her decision, made her lack of interest for myself quite clear. All that is left for me is to accept it." He tossed back the contents of his glass and snapped his fingers at the innkeeper for a refill. "I mean, by the time I returned to Mansfield, I would have been somebody's <em>husband</em>. That's quite a step, you know. I was going to <em>marry</em> her."</p><p>"You were going to marry <em>who</em>?" snorted a rather greasy-looking young man a few cushions down from where Yates was dully reclining.</p><p>"Fanny Price," Tom admitted, as the innkeeper placed a fresh pint of ale down in front of him.</p><p>"<em>Fanny Price</em>?" the man laughed incredulously, slapping his knee and nearly choking on his own saliva. "That insipid little prude is unattainable."</p><p>Tom peered over at him with cool disgust. "Oh, for<em> you</em>, definitely." He gestured down at himself. "But it's <em>me </em>we're in the process of discussing here, so please remove yourself from this conversation. When John and I want your viewpoint, we shall send for it posthaste. Until then, <em>do</em> shut up."</p><p>The young man cursed, then returned to conversing with his own companions, who all readily agreed that Fanny Price was insipid and – really – quite ugly. And it was very good fortune for them that Tom did not happen to overhear the latter, as he might have taken offence despite himself, despite his being more the teaser than the fighter by nature; for sweet little Fanny was both family and potential lover and – especially while intoxicated – there could be no standing for that sort of disrespect levelled against her by such men who were not worth looking at themselves.</p><p>"And here I thought," said Yates, smiling a little, "that you'd given your timid little love up for lost."</p><p>"Good heavens, no," declared Tom, quite changed. "Give up? When I've just been reminded how greatly the odds are stacked in my favour? Don't be such a fool, Yates. There's still a chance." He grinned to himself, taking comfort. "D'you know John, recalling what women are – I've got two sisters, after all – I should have thought before now how likely it is she will yet change her mind." And signalling to the innkeeper once again, he asked a pointed question about when the next Assembly Night was. "Many a formerly scornful young lady," he added to Yates, after his question was dutifully answered, "falls in love at a dance; all the more so if she has the attentions of an agreeable partner. What say you?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Hopelessness, As We Currently Know it</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Four:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Hopelessness, As We Currently Know It</em>
</p><p>Fanny herself expressed no wish to dance on the next Assembly Night; she'd only just gotten over a recent complaint which left her dizzied and short on breath, and – more urgently – she was very much afraid of seeing Tom, who, by all accounts, had remained in Portsmouth though he had not made another visit to their home since that last disastrous rainy day.</p><p>But Susan longed to be at the dance. She longed to be anywhere that was not their noisy home. The night was too fine, and the misery of being cooped up on a starry, clear night when the temperature was not such as to make walking inadvisable for her elder sister, watching their father spit into the fireplace while their mother bemoaned that she could not yet dismiss Rebecca and angrily picked apart the seams of one of Richard's badly mended breeches, and then vocally lamented the manner in which nobody in the entire household felt the slightest inclination to help the woman who had only given them life, whether or not they cared for their lot in it, too horrible to contemplate. Even the likelihood of finding no suitable partner, of being snubbed by the Portsmouth boys who had already staked out their favourites, and left to sit alone while everyone else joined in the set, should no friendly outsiders be present, was to be considered a far lesser evil in light of the alternative.</p><p>Fanny <em>knew</em> this, of course, was perfectly aware of Susan's dread, and when her sister applied to her, making a desperate remark about them possibly going before their mother could start tossing scraps from the workbox their way, insisting they join in on the mending rather than be idle after the dishes were cleared and the washing brought in, she allowed herself to be taken along and her pale countenance used as an excuse.</p><p>Betsey cried that she wanted to come, too, and their mother – looking up from her work with the only tender expression she had managed to give to anyone that bitter night – sadly reminded her she wasn't old enough yet.</p><p>The girls hastily made their exit while Betsey was still wailing over the perceived unfairness of this and, walking as briskly as they could without exerting Fanny too much, were soon within the walls of the dance hall.</p><p>There were in Portsmouth, as there are in all places, a group of local girls who required – in order to feel better about their own less than stellar prospects – a living vessel to unleash their venom upon.</p><p>The Prices – being a large, poor family – were not altogether the easy targets for this manner of bullying one might assume; the girls didn't dare press themselves with too much fury upon Susan, who despite her underlying desire to be sweet and good might actually have snapped and clawed out their eyes and ripped out a number of hair ribbons if provoked and not held back in time. Betsey was too small, and made by her mother's indulgence twice as vicious as Susan besides. And the boys were, well, <em>boys</em>. They had not loved Mary much, but she was dead now and – by way of collective conscience – deemed to be something near sainthood by means of her tragic passing.</p><p>But Fanny was fair game to them; weak and soft and sensitive and unwilling to fight back, with an air that suggested she thought them below even her justified scorn regardless of whatsoever they might do.</p><p>This was, in part, thanks to a circular misunderstanding.</p><p>In testing out the waters with Fanny as a potential victim when they were still quite young, they openly snubbed William, whose obvious doting could not escape their notice. For herself (and even Susan, in many instances) Fanny would not raise a hand or spare a cold look, but her cheeks coloured and her eyes narrowed for the sake of that most beloved brother. Fanny believed they snubbed him, not to torment her, but because they misjudged his impeccable good character. So she made no efforts to integrate herself to those girls and, in the time that should have – as years can do – changed her from victim and initiate into one of their own by association, only became more despised to them.</p><p>It was to the point where Portsmouth's young persons could be divided up into two sloppy categories, the first being those who – within reason – tolerated Fanny Price, and thus were friends of William on principal, and the second those who loathed her and found her entire person entirely disagreeable, and by extension never spoke to William if it could be avoided.</p><p>William himself had attempted to soften the blow between the factions somewhat by giving off the impression that he was ignored by the young ladies because he was a midshipman and as such too lowly in rank to be worth their looking at, not because of any partiality to his misunderstood favourite sister.</p><p>But it did very little in the end.</p><p>These Portsmouth politics had mattered very little on the last Assembly Night, the one on which Tom had first seen Fanny, because the ringleader of the girls – as well as her two closest companions – had been absent.</p><p>The leader herself had been away visiting relatives, one of the companions with her, as a guest, and the last home ill with some stomach complaint or other.</p><p>They were all three of them returned now, however, and their little clique surrounding them, and they were disappointed to see a tall, handsome visitor looking only at Fanny.</p><p>Fanny who – as was her right as an outcast – currently sat apart from them all, holding Susan's hand in a corner, with little in the way of perspective partners.</p><p>Even when they learned the tall, well-looking gentleman was a relation of hers, and might not be looking to dance with her after all, they could not bring themselves leave the matter alone.</p><p>The ringleader decided to step out in front of Tom Bertram's line of vision, convinced, as she told the others, that he would – once he got a good look at her – send his friend over to ask her to dance and that would be the end of his attentions – such as they might or might not be – towards Fanny Price.</p><p>At first, she appeared to be proved right, for Mr. Yates <em>did</em> approach – smiling sheepishly.</p><p>"Excuse me, dreadfully sorry to disturb you, especially with no introductions having been made," he said, pointing over to Tom; "but Mr. Bertram is standing over there, just across the way, and he wishes me to ask you a favour."</p><p>She opened a fan and fluttered her eyelashes. "Yes?"</p><p>"He asks if you would grant him the pleasure of..."</p><p>A cluster of girls leaned in, giggling and whispering.</p><p>"...moving yourself a couple feet to the left or else removing your bonnet and taking some of the pins out of your hair – you've got it up rather high and you're blocking his view of the room."</p><p>Her mouth dropped open.</p><p>Poor John Yates blinked innocently. "Have I said something wrong?" One never knew, in this backwater, what might be thought offensive.</p><p>The room was fairly small, and so Susan and Fanny both heard the majority of the exchange. They saw Mr. Yates looking bewildered, and the girls offended, and that alone was enough information to tell them what had occurred even if they had not caught the dialogue in its entirety.</p><p>Fanny had – despite herself – to fight against a small smile.</p><p>Tom, once he could see the path to where she sat clearly again, unimpeded by oversize bonnets at last, approached and asked if she might care to dance.</p><p>"I'd be more than willing to stand up with you," he added casually to the end of his invitation, sniffing a trifle self-importantly.</p><p>Her expression went slack, blank. "No, but I thank you, <em>cousin</em>."</p><p>Susan was aghast – it was the nearest to spiteful she had ever heard her sister speak. How could this be the same sister who had once reprimanded <em>her</em> for her own, somewhat unwarranted, coldness towards this very gentleman? What had gotten into her? Foolish kiss or no foolish kiss, Fanny's icy stiffness in regards to Tom Bertram was unexpected to all parties presently witnessing it.</p><p>"Oh, Fanny" – she let go of her hand and squeezed her arm – "how <em>can</em> you?"</p><p>"But, <em>come</em>, hear me out, Fanny," Tom persevered, kneeling before her imploringly. "If you do not agree to dance with me, I will not dance tonight with anyone else – for <em>them</em> I'm tired to death, how they keep it up so long my weary mind cannot conceive.</p><p>"You can clearly see there's nobody else suitable in this whole damnable room.</p><p>"Yates will think himself in no need of joining in if <em>I'm</em> not going to – and he will not feel inclined to ask your sister to dance so that we can all be merry together for the next set – and then we will all be very unhappy together, watching everybody else have fun.</p><p>"Why should you deny four beautiful young people as ourselves such easy felicity? Is it not badly done?" He reached for her hand, which she was not quick enough to pull away, lacing his fingers through hers in a smooth, intimate motion. "Can you not stand up with me for a bit? When do I ask anything of you? Come, don't resist any longer, or the dance will be over."</p><p>She nodded grimly, not meeting his eyes. "If Susan really wishes to dance – and I think she does – I'll oblige."</p><p>She looked, as he guided her towards end of the line, pallid and grave, like she was being led to a scaffold, not to a dance.</p><p>Whenever they came near to each other during the dancing, they could manage a short, clipped parody of a conversation.</p><p>On Tom's part, as he joined hands with her, he was able to ask why she was so vexed with him before they pulled away and must spin behind another pair of partners before meeting in the middle again.</p><p>She, displaying her prettiest manners, at first tried to deny her vexation, even nearly convincing herself she was only tired from the walk to the dance hall, that he had not wounded her so severely, not <em>really</em>, but finally admitted – when he would not give the matter up for anything – he had embarrassed her when they'd seen each other last.</p><p>"I meant nothing by it," he assured her.</p><p>That was precisely what distressed her, the fact that she did not think he meant anything by anything <em>ever</em>, that nothing which happened here should be more than passing amusement to him, but she could not bring herself to say so – she was frightened of crying again, and in front of such persons as would never allow her to hear the end of it, for the girls who had been dismissed by Tom earlier were watching her like jealous hawks now.</p><p>"I forgive you, then – let us say no more of it," she managed, and sped away from him as soon as there was a break in the music.</p><p>To Susan, Tom sighed, rather dejectedly, "Yes, I <em>quite</em> see it now."</p><p>"See what?"</p><p>"How bothersome alike you both are – I had not realised it, but I suppose sisters generally are, even if my own are not – Fanny cuts me dead now the way you tried to once before."</p><p>Now Susan was cross with him as well, for the unjust comparison, as she took it to be a great disfavour, wickedly pinning her own poor temper onto that of a distressed sister whose general demeanour she considered saintly by <em>true</em> comparison, if weighed fairly. And, she reasoned privately, if Tom could not see that, could not see Fanny was <em>hurt</em>, and could not feel wretched over himself being the cause of that hurt, he was a greater fool than thirty dull Portsmouth boys combined.</p><p>"Fanny's behaviour towards you," Susan defended, stomping after him across the room, cheeks heating, "has been all it should. Can as much be said for <em>yours</em>, Mr. Bertram?"</p><p>"Are we all finished with dancing, then?" asked Yates, following uncertainly, gesturing behind them with a pointed thumb. "Am I no longer needed to stand up? My feet hurt."</p><p>"Yes, thank you, Mr. Yates," Susan said over her shoulder. "We are done."</p><p>Tom spun around, his expression tense. "Susan, if you can tell me there is someone else, that my actions since growing close to your family have somehow jeopardized her happiness, I swear – on anything you like – I shall never bother your sister again."</p><p>Stunned by his uncharacteristic seriousness, she could only goggle at him helplessly. "I–"</p><p>"<em>Is</em> she already spoken for?" Tom asked point-blank. "Or is she only shy?"</p><p>"She's <em>shy</em>," hissed Susan, speaking sharply through clenched teeth.</p><p>Satisfied, he resolved to celebrate this pleasant news, this extra assurance that he did not have some grimy Portsmouth rival to show himself up against, which would have been deeply humiliating as well as unfairly taken Fanny away from his suit, by getting himself something to drink.</p><hr/><p>On her way to fetch her coat from the cloak room, so that she might start for home with Susan before their mother noticed they'd – through distraction – remained rather longer than she'd allotted for their absence and said something to their father about it, Fanny discovered Tom in the antechamber slumped across the wooden bench.</p><p>She quickly concluded that if he was not actually drunk, then he was near enough to it to appear quite pitiful indeed.</p><p>She sat next to him primly, a stiff mirror image of how he'd sat beside her during their first meeting. "Tom?"</p><p>"Hmm?" he sighed, glancing up at her from under his eyelashes, smiling when he recognised who it was. "<em>Fanny</em>!"</p><p>No, he most certainly <em>was</em> drunk. There could no longer be the slightest doubt about it.</p><p>"Can you get back to the inn like this?"</p><p>"Like what?" He leaned against her and rested his head on her shoulder. "M'sure I don't know what you mean. M'perfectly all right."</p><p>"Where's Mr. Yates? Has he gone and left you behind?"</p><p>"How th'ell should <em>I</em> know?" he slurred, blinking blearily. His eyelashes tickled her shoulder. "He said something about his feet hurting – s'all I remember. Was some several minutes back – when we were talking to your sister. Didn't see him after that."</p><p>"I'd thought you left already," Fanny told him in an urgent whisper.</p><p>"Leave? How can I leave? I don't want to leave without you," he murmured so softly she almost wasn't certain she'd heard correctly. "I can't leave Portsmouth and go back to Mansfield – <em>you're</em> here."</p><p>"<em>Tom</em>..."</p><p>He was nuzzling her neck, slipping his arms around her waist.</p><p>"Which inn are you staying at?" She thought perhaps she and Susan could walk him there and leave him with the innkeeper – they were late as it was, in more trouble than they'd ever been in as likely as not, but he'd stagger right onto the rougher streets, and possibly get himself hurt, if they left him like this, when the dance hall closed doors for the night.</p><p>"S'it's the one with the rooms 'n beds and all that sort of 'hing," he told her, most unhelpfully.</p><p>Fanny bit down onto her trembling lower lip, trying to<em> think</em>.</p><p>His continued nuzzling grew a bit more earnest and he began planting a series of rather forceful kisses on her neck and making barely coherent remarks about what an exceptionally pretty girl she was, occasionally asking in a rhetoric manner if she herself was aware of that exceedingly delightful fact.</p><p>Whimpering, she pressed a hand against one of his shoulders and pushed him off her.</p><p>He then – after being upright for about one half of a second – promptly fell forward, his head landing heavily in her lap.</p><p>"Fanny?" Susan had come looking for her – as well as for her own coat.</p><p>"You'll need to help me move him," she said quietly to her sister. "He's too heavy."</p><p>Glancing both ways with widened eyes, Susan asked, "Where are we taking him?"</p><p>Fanny felt strongly that she ought to take him back to the inn – back to Mr. Yates – but was also very much aware of the impossibility doing so, even with Susan's help, as they might very well get the wrong inn for all their troubles.</p><p>Rolling over, head still lolled in her lap, Tom made a low grunting sound.</p><p>"<em>Home</em>," Fanny settled at last, shaking her head. "We'll have to take him home with us. Mother will put him somewhere."</p><p>"<em>If </em>she's awake," Susan said, coming over and taking one of Tom's arms while Fanny laboured to drape the other over her thin shoulders so she could help balance him. "She might not have waited up – might be waiting for the morning to scold us."</p><p>"We're already in a great deal of trouble." She took a staggering step forward, hoping Tom would have enough wits about him not to drag his feet, and not being anywhere near so fortunate as that as – apart from the arm held up by Susan, who yanked him upright as best she could – his full weight nearly landed directly on her back. "This cannot end well."</p><p>"We'll put him in with the boys," Susan suggested next; "Father may not even notice."</p><p>Perhaps not, but Fanny thought her brothers themselves, even if they were asleep – or near it – when they arrived, certainly would notice another man crammed into their bed – especially one who, as of the moment, smelled most unmistakably like a brewery.</p><hr/><p>It wasn't until they dragged him down the narrow street and Susan had to let go of his arm to open the door to their house that Tom spoke to either of them again.</p><p>Leaning against Fanny and breathing rather heavily, he murmured, "You have the beauty of n'angel, Fanny Price, d'you know that?"</p><p>She turned scarlet and looked imploringly to Susan, who – just having gotten the door open with the minimum creaking they could manage – apparently hadn't heard him and shrugged helplessly at Fanny's flushed face before taking Tom's arm again.</p><p>"<em>Blast'n bother</em>," she spat suddenly, plainly furious with herself – and Fanny halted in the pitch dark entrance to squint at her sister and ask what was amiss (apart from the obvious, naturally).</p><p>"I forgot my coat," Susan moaned. "I didn't go into the cloak room – I was too worried about getting <em>him</em> out."</p><p>Tom made a faint smacking noise with his mouth, as if he somehow knew – despite his stupor – he was being referred to in conversation and was trying to make some manner of reply.</p><p>Wretched, Fanny mouthed an apology, feeling keenly that she ought to have noticed before now and the loss of the coat was her fault as much as Susan's. Hopefully they could go back and pick it up tomorrow; if nothing prevented them, that was – if their mother was willing to let them out unescorted, or out <em>at all</em>, given the hour they were coming in tonight.</p><p>Fanny blanched as the toe of her slipper hit the first step. She hadn't considered the stairs. How were they supposed to – just the two of them – carry Tom up those?</p><p>"Mr. Bertram," whispered Susan, into Tom's ear, getting little more than what might only be described as a low giggle by way of acknowledgement for her urgent speech, "you're going to have to step up when we say. Can you do that?"</p><p>Fanny nearly answered for him that he most certainly could not, but he actually reached around them for what remained of the weak banister like he was going to try it despite himself.</p><p>"Well. This is promising." Susan all but crossed her fingers.</p><p>He fell backwards, knocking Fanny – who tried her best to catch him – down and pinning her underneath his bulk so that Susan had to peel them both off the floor while looking anxiously over her shoulder, hoping the noise hadn't woken anyone within – especially not Mr. Price.</p><p>"Eh. Perhaps <em>not</em> so promising," she admitted, helping Fanny to her feet. "Are you all right, dear?"</p><p>She was sore, but she nodded – nothing sort of actual, visible bleeding would have made her confess to being hurt in this anxious moment.</p><p>"Are we up'tairs ye-e-t?" mumbled Tom, hiccuping slightly.</p><p>"<em>No</em>, Mr. Bertram," sighed Susan, "we are <em>not</em>."</p><p>"<em>Th'shame</em>." And he crumpled, his knees quite having given way, landing on the floor again with an audible <em>thud</em> that made both girls' hearts catch in their throats.</p><p>"I must take his feet, you take his shoulders," Fanny said after a long, uncomfortable pause.</p><p>"We ought to sort of fold his arms across his chest first, I think, so they don't go flailing every way as we're walking up" – and Susan did her best to accomplish this, then stepped back and let Fanny take his feet before stepping over towards his head to pull him up by the armpits.</p><p>When, after much strenuous effort, the girls had managed to manoeuvrer Tom into the boys' room, they found their efforts to tuck him in between Charles and Richard impeded by the presence of a large, snorting pig.</p><p>Reaching over Charles, Susan tried to shake her other little brother awake. "Tom?"</p><p>"Yes?" came from Tom Bertram, still draped over Fanny, blinking his glassy eyes in her direction.</p><p>"No, not <em>you</em>, Mr. Bertram," she sighed. Then, "<em>Tom Price</em>, you wake up at once!"</p><p>"What'd you <em>want</em>, Susie?" The boy grunted, rolling over.</p><p>"Why, for mercy's sake, is there <em>livestock</em> in the bed?"</p><p>"I don't know," he said with pursed lips. "Charlie's t'one as put him there."</p><p>"For the love of–" Susan gave the pig a little shove and he snorted and trotted off the mattress, squealing as he stomped over to the other end of the dusty room.</p><p>"Is Cousin Tom <em>dead</em>?" asked Tom Price.</p><p>"No, of course not," Fanny said reassuringly, just as Susan glanced at their cousin – who currently had fallen face-first at the foot of the mattress, near Richard's feet, and wasn't moving even when Charles kicked him in his sleep – and said, "<em>Possibly</em>."</p><p>Coughing, Tom Bertram rolled over and murmured something incoherent about card-tables and, perhaps, dice (it did not seem very probable that he meant <em>mice</em>, though that was how the word came out, sounding a bit more like a slurred M than a D).</p><p>"Oh, would you look at that – he's <em>alive</em>," Susan amended, rolling her eyes, and slapping her little brother on the backside. "Now move over and make room for him, all right?"</p><p>The pig – glaring from across the room – oinked gutturally and let out a succession of squeals.</p><p>Susan narrowed her eyes and glared right back at the animal over her shoulder. "Oi" – she pointed – "nobody asked <em>your</em> opinion."</p><p>Fanny smiled at this exchange, a little peace and contentment creeping into her expression, until she heard Richard, awake now as well, say, "He's just like <em>Father</em>, isn't he, our fancy cousin? Father comes home from the dockyard just the same as this," and her smile immediately fell away to nothing, leaving her looking pale and stricken.</p><p>"<em>Smells </em>like Father," agreed Tom Price, carelessly, matter-of-fact.</p><p>Tears rapidly filling her eyes, Fanny fled through the little adjoining closet and, upon arriving in their own little room, sat down at the edge of the mattress a few inches from a contentedly snoring Betsey.</p><p>She put her face in her hands.</p><p>"Fanny." Susan was beside her now, an arm around her waist, pulling her close and resting a cheekbone against her sister's hairline. "It can't really be the same thing. You know what boys are, they make everything so black and white."</p><p>But poor Fanny could not bring herself to speak. She was miserable and suffering from a malady beyond mere sisterly words, too far out of any earthly comfort's reach; save, perhaps, that which William might have offered, and he was, of course, not there – he was somewhere far off at sea. This was one of those times Susan could not fill his place, could not fully understand her sister's private horrors and fears however badly she wanted to, however she willed herself to.</p><p>But there was no help for her exhaustion, her hopelessness. The night was utterly spent and so was Fanny Price.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Guides, Wherever We Might Find Them</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Five:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Guides, Wherever We Might Find Them</em>
</p><p>Upon awakening to find himself in strange (not to mention foul-smelling) surroundings, Tom Bertram's first thoughts, such as could be put into an approximation of<em> words</em>, were something akin to, "What the–?" followed by an ejaculation of what was perhaps not the most diplomatic word he could have employed but certainly not the choicest he might have said unwittingly in the company of children.</p><p>He second thoughts, which arrived in his heavy head around the same time as he managed to ascertain where he was, were all vehement curses for John Yates.</p><p>What did that foolish friend of his think he was<em> doing</em>, abandoning him to be picked up by his poor relations?</p><p>The problem with Tom – which he himself never acknowledged as a problem (and <em>that </em>was a problem all its own, if one should choose to explore the rent in the matter more closely rather than to digress for efficiency's sake) – was, while he <em>thought</em> himself up to the task of moulding his companions into something steadfast in his favour, he was dreadfully<em> lazy</em>.</p><p>And this laziness of a mental sort, in turn, made him indolent and lax in morality if not in manners.</p><p>A frustrated tutor (who had irately entered the downstairs drawing-room in Mansfield dripping from head to toe and angrily flapping the soaked pages of a submerged textbook he'd rescued) once told (a then adolescent) Tom's father, Sir Thomas Bertram, "The reason your eldest son does not aim towards a higher morality, most regrettably, is because it would take effort – he thinks himself naturally 'good enough' and 'good within reason', is content in being stagnant, and assumes all potential friends that come his way to be much the same, and so he only half-heartedly influences them at the start of any acquaintanceship. Then he quickly loses interest in anything save his own amusement.</p><p>"If he does not change his ways, mark my words, sir, he will sooner or later be corrupted by the company he keeps – he will not have any success in elevating them, and will allow himself to be dragged down. As you can see by my state, he is already a little devil, and I am sorry for it. <em>Good day</em> to you!"</p><p>To be fair, Mr. Yates was the best of Tom's circle of friends, the least backwards and probably the most well-meaning, but that was not saying much. Tom had never required him to be anything other than merry and to listen to him; he had broken him in, he thought, the same way one would break a colt or train a dog, with pleasant reward or severe reprimand and then laughter and indulgence the rest of the time. But what Tom never understood, as many rich boys do not growing up, was that – when it came to his stables and kennels – he'd always had someone trained and diligent going after whatever he should leave behind in a moment of frustration or boredom, and it was <em>they</em> who were constant enough to get the results he basked in and took credit for.</p><p>Interestingly, perhaps the <em>only</em> thing he'd ever stuck with so stubbornly as to leave some hope of unaided success was his current pursuit: his struggle to win over the resistant heart of Fanny Price.</p><p>His head ached. The pulse behind his eyes <em>throbbed</em>. The light from the open doorway was nauseating.</p><p>A little finger – belonging to Charles Price – poked at his cheek.</p><p>"Mmm, <em>stop</em> that," he grumbled through dry, cracked lips.</p><p>"Everyone else is downstairs – there won't be any breakfast for you if you don't get up."</p><p>"You go on without me."</p><p>Charles poked him again.</p><p>His head, feeling as if it were filled with wet sand, seemed to actually – no word of a lie – slosh and <em>squelch</em>.</p><p>"Charlie, if you stop poking me," promised Tom, resorting to bribery in his desperation, "I will give you the half sovereign I've got in my pocket. As soon as I can get up, it's yours."</p><p>"Ohhh, 'bout that, see... Pro'bem <em>is</em>, Richard already took that while you were sleeping – and then he dropped it and it bounced on the floor – like ping, ping, <em>piiiing</em> – and the pig<em> ate </em>it." The boy's eyes were wide. "N'he ate the half guinea from your other pocket, too."</p><p>"<em>Did</em> he now?" Forehead tight, turning awkwardly upon what he judged to be the world's flattest pillow, Tom arched an incredulous eyebrow, having noticed that Charles patted his own pocket when he spoke of the half guinea.</p><p>This little cousin, he thought, would make a <em>terrible</em> card player.</p><p>Lifting himself up with a groan, Tom suddenly realised one of his shoulders was absolutely <em>killing</em> him.</p><p>What he felt was not a bruise; he had not been bumped being brought into this bed, nor injured accidentally by its other occupants. It felt – if it felt like anything he could remotely put a name to – more like what had resulted from the one night in Antigua he had decided he was too wearied to put up his mosquito-netting before going to sleep.</p><p>His father, his expression merciless, had told him it was all his own folly, that a few red bumps on the arms and legs was the least of the injuries his laziness could have caused, and he ought to count himself most fortunate if he did not die of malaria.</p><p>"I<em> despair </em>of you, Tom," Sir Thomas Bertram had finished, stomping out of their hut in a grand huff.</p><p>Tom had then, cheerfully enough, concluded that the likelihood of death from the swollen bites was not<em> too</em> high; otherwise, surely not even his own cold father could have spoken with so little feeling, disappointment in him notwithstanding.</p><p>It was a vaguely similar stinging and swelling sensation he felt on his left shoulder now.</p><p>With a muttered curse, Tom undid his greatly rumpled cravat, which he really thought someone <em>might</em> have thought to loosen for him before dumping him in a strange bed, then – tossing it aside – pulled back the collar of his shirt to check.</p><p>Some manner of bug had indeed feasted on him last night.</p><p>"Do me a favour," sighed Tom, wincing and rotating his shoulder, perhaps milking it a bit though – by God's own truth – he honestly believed himself afflicted, looking imploringly to Charles, who'd begun – most unbecomingly – to pick his nose with the same little finger he'd previously been poking at his cousin with, "and fetch one of your elder sisters to me. I would prefer Fanny – she seems, despite her coldness last night, to be the more likely nurse. But Susan will do well enough if Fanny will not attend to me."</p><p>"What'll you give me?"</p><p>"I'm <em>afraid</em>, Charlie boy, you lot have <em>quite</em> robbed me blind already – I've nothing left to give you but my everlasting good will."</p><p>Charles removed his finger from his nose and pulled a face which displayed, very plainly, how little the boy considered mere 'good will' to be much of a reward worth earning.</p><hr/><p>It <em>was</em> Fanny after all who was brought to Tom's side, and who wordlessly led him into a corner and bid him to sit on a cracked, three-legged stool, offering – without properly meeting his eyes – to take a look at his shoulder. Susan had been otherwise employed when Charles came searching for one or other of them.</p><p>Tom lifted his shirt over his head and waggled his eyebrows teasingly at her gawking expression.</p><p>Blushing crimson before regaining a small measure of composure, Fanny focused with an exaggerated intensity on wringing out a compress for his swelling.</p><p>Tom remarked that it was a nice enough morning, given the location and state in which he'd awakened and the splitting headache he was currently having, and that seeing a pretty face so early in the day made it very nearly worth it.</p><p>He was feeling <em>so</em> good-humoured at the sight of her, he added, he might not actually kill Mr. Yates for having abandoned him last night.</p><p>Fanny muttered something about having a headache herself, which from anyone else might have sounded passive aggressive rather than timidly conversational. Then she started to bring the compress to his shoulder with a shaking hand, recoiling just a little as she came close to him.</p><p>"I don't <em>bite</em>, Fanny," he laughed, wrinkling his nose. "At least not very hard."</p><p>She pressed the compress down and patted it gently, keeping her body as far from his as she could reasonably manage.</p><p>"You needn't be so shy with me," he said, reaching out to stroke her chin and finding himself immediately rebuffed with a sharp head-turn and needing to settle for the silky tip of a tousled golden curl before it, too, was pulled behind his reach. "Really, Fanny!" The compress slipped off his shoulder and landed on the floor with a <em>splat</em>. "Are we <em>never</em> to move beyond this?"</p><p>Fanny's eyes closed, and she inhaled a low, pained breath as she bent over to pick the damp cloth up and drop it back into the bucket of water at her side to rinse it off before wringing it out again.</p><p>"You forget, Mr. Bertram" – it was as if she was resolutely not calling him Tom to make her point – "that our acquaintanceship is not so intimate as you make it out to be and that what amuses you..." She choked off for a moment, swallowing hard. "What amuses <em>you</em>, Mr. Bertram, can so easily be distressing on <em>my</em> account."</p><p>"Why should my attentions distress you?"</p><p>She did not reply.</p><p>"And no more of this Mr. Bertram nonsense between us, please – I'm <em>Tom</em>, am I not? Have I not been Tom to you and yours for many visits now?"</p><p>"Please," she said at last, rising up and staggering away from him. "<em>Please</em>. I cannot bear it."</p><p>He pulled his shirt back on over his head and rose from the stool, eager and quick to follow her desperate retreat.</p><hr/><p>Seeing his eldest daughter come down the stairs, followed by a dishevelled Mr. Bertram, who – for his part – was wearing neither shoes nor cravat, Mr. Price's eyes narrowed, and his countenance darkened in a way it had not when he'd seen this same cousin kiss her the other day.</p><p>He clearly did not assume the situation to be wholly innocent this time.</p><p>Susan saw his face and – heedless of the fireplace soot dripping down the front of her dress and smearing her already dirty-looking apron – at once rushed over to step in front of them both, holding out her hands, gesturing earnestly in her father's direction to divert his attention.</p><p>For the smallest second, the shortest of heightened heartbeats, the noisiest house in all of Portsmouth seemed to inexplicably go <em>silent</em>.</p><p>"Mr. Bertram spent the night with the <em>boys</em>, Father," Susan insisted, breaking the silence. "Fanny was with myself and Betsey in our own bed. Mr. Bertram took ill last night and, when we couldn't find his friend or learn where it was they stayed, we put him in with our brothers."</p><p>"<em>Ill</em>, was it?" Mr. Price was grinning now, showing the worst of his teeth – the danger had quite passed, as had the cloud in his expression. "<em>Aye</em>." He guffawed and coughed simultaneously. "I know what malady he must have suffered." And he performed a crude pantomime of filling a glass and downing it, followed by a hearty wink. "Heh. Good man."</p><p>Throughout breakfast, of which Fanny managed to eat very little (more so even than usual), Tom hardly took his eyes off her, and she could barely look his way without a lump in her throat and a trembling lower lip.</p><p>Mr. Price had lost interest in them, while Mrs. Price was too busy yelling for Rebecca, coddling Betsey, and seeing her boys off to bother taking notice of him at all – indeed, she could only just manage to weakly scold her girls for their late night and drop a few idle threats in the process – but Susan watched them both with trepidation.</p><p>She knew Tom's feelings, such as they were, and she knew Fanny's. And she knew they were the sort of feelings which <em>ought</em> to be be complimentary, except that they were clearly not. Fanny considered fancying Tom an affliction, much like one of her headaches, which needed to be suffered through, and she was trying to do so stoically – she was trying to be a heroine about it. But Tom seemed to think his intentions towards Fanny both a grand lark and the most serious of endeavours at the same time.</p><p>Poor Tom. He'd only made things worse by getting drunk last night. Fanny's expression when her brother compared him to her father... It had frozen her feelings and made her double up on resisting him.</p><p>Susan almost wished he would stop looking so pathetic and just ask Fanny to marry him already. If he did, if Fanny knew he was not simply playing, it <em>might</em> change things. She could not be<em> sure</em>, but no other hope for either her sister or her cousin seemed very likely.</p><p>It was Susan who saw Tom to the door, as Fanny would not follow him from the table; Susan who gave him his shoes and wished him luck as he backed out into the narrow street.</p><p>"If Fanny..." he began before the younger Miss Price could close the door. "If she..." His voice halted, cracking slightly. "Could you tell her I... That I'm..." He shook his head. "Hang it all! She <em>must</em> know. She must know and be indifferent to it."</p><p>"Don't be hard – on her or yourself – I think you've simply frightened her, Mr. Bertram," was all Susan could manage, before shrinking back into the house.</p><hr/><p>Tom looked out at the harbour, watched a boat rock in the wind. He was seated on a low stone parapet. "John, I confess myself to be wholly out of ideas."</p><p>Mr. Yates, at his side, reached down and patted his right arm. "Have you considered a grand gesture? Girls tend go in for that sort of nonsense, in my experience."</p><p>"Such <em>as</em>?"</p><p>After a few moments of false starts and dithering, Mr. Yates finally came up with, "You could hire someone – a young boy perhaps – to light fireworks off at her house."</p><p>Turning at the waist, Tom gave him a look of withering scorn. "Oh, that's brilliant," he snipped sarcastically. "I don't need to hear any further suggestions on the matter."</p><p>"A simple <em>no</em> would have sufficed."</p><p>"No, no," he went on. "I believe there's truly something to this. Putting explosives into the hands of an inexperienced child and potentially blowing up her family's home is<em> certain</em> to make Fanny Price fall madly in love with me!"</p><p>"Now, see here, old chap–"</p><p>"And perhaps, when her family has no place to live, on account of the smoke show where their house used to be, she'll <em>have</em> to marry me whether she can stand the sight of me or not."</p><p>"Steady on."</p><p>"The only problem with that," he continued mercilessly, "is it will make for one very <em>frigid </em>wedding night – given she'll be too coldly furious with me for displacing her family – my own cousins – for either of us to enjoy ourselves very much."</p><p>"I simply meant," Yates forced out doggedly, shoulders slumped, "a<em> little</em> firework show – set up around a sort of big hamper, which could open up and white birds could fly out. The boy could be paid a little extra to quote a poem about starlings or something."</p><p>Sucking in his lips, Tom forced himself to refrain from pointed remarks about hampers being flammable and the nature of birds being unreliable, white or otherwise, and hired errand boys being rather rubbish at reciting as a general rule, a little afraid of sounding severe and as such too much like a certain younger brother of his, and simply said, "What manner of backwater idiot would think that romantic?"</p><p>"You could dive into a pond in your skivvies – then sort of spring up when she comes around."</p><p>Tom's mouth parted slightly, brow furrowing. "<em>Listen</em>. Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think I want you anywhere <em>near</em> my unattached sister."</p><p>Yates pretended not to hear that. "Girls tend to get all flustered and lean towards swooning over such a dramatic manner of meeting."</p><p>"<em>Wha</em>–" he started. "Never mind – I don't want to know." He rolled his eyes. "There aren't any ponds around here at any rate."</p><p>"There's always the harbour."</p><p>"That water is <em>filthy</em>." Tom was aghast, pointing with empathic disgust. "I'm not even sure I want Fanny to marry me <em>that</em> badly."</p><p>"Well, can you write poetry?"</p><p>"Sure." Nearly anyone could.</p><p>"<em>Good </em>poetry?" Yates double-checked.</p><p>Tom shook his head and, exhaling heavily, blew out his cheeks. "Middling at best – and nothing suitable rhymes with <em>Fanny</em> anyway."</p><p>"You're <em>quite </em>sure springing out of the harbour in dripping undergarments wouldn't help matters any? Even a little? It <em>does</em> seems to assist greatly with the wooing of fragile maidens in certain stage-plays."</p><p>"Well, given she's already seen me without a shirt, I'm going to have to guess, <em>no</em> – it will <em>not</em> help. Now, if you have any advice which pertains to the <em>current</em> century, the times we're actually living in, let me know of it."</p><p>"Has she <em>completely refused</em> you? What did she say to your proposal? She must have been sorely tempted by your superior wealthy and position, if nothing else."</p><p>"I haven't asked her," Tom confessed, his countenance suddenly having become discomfited. "Not directly." He fiddled with his fingers. "Not in so many words. But she must know – she's a shy little creepmouse who never thinks of herself, but she's not <em>stupid</em>."</p><p>"The very <em>worst </em>she could say, Tom, is <em>no</em>," Mr. Yates gently reminded him. "Do buck up. Other pretty women in the world, what.</p><p>"D'you know, Bertram, I always thought privately – on the rare occasion I thought of you at all – you'd go after an Amelia Wildenhaim type, have your head turned by someone small, dark, and bright. Someone set on reforming you, no doubt; someone who wouldn't care for <em>my</em> company. But now you've quite gone to pieces over a brittle, light-eyed waif who won't look at you and – when she bothers to reprimand – leaves you entirely to your own conscience." He <em>tsk</em>ed. "My fine, fine fellow! What <em>has </em>gotten into you?"</p><p>Tom sighed and turned away, blinking, the wind blowing back his hair as he leaned forward and unhappily inhaled the low, rather ripe, scent of the low tide.</p><p>Tom Bertram had never before met any acquaintance – man or woman – he could not forget in lieu of the eventual comforts of home; someone who he could not readily shake from his mind once securely within the luxury of his own large bedroom at Mansfield; someone whose absence could not be washed away by a glass of his father's best port; someone whose name and face could not be hastily erased by the pleasure of billiards or a brisk afternoon visit to the stables.</p><p>But he greatly feared that timid little Fanny Price was exactly such a person.</p><p>"<em>She</em> has," he whispered.</p><hr/><p>Fanny and Susan reclined upon their sides on the mattress with Betsey snoring between them and clutching some recent bauble given to her by their fancy cousin.</p><p>While Fanny affectionately stroked Betsey's hair, Susan watched her elder sister's grave, preoccupied expression. "What if he asks you?"</p><p>She knew who was being referenced at once, and what he was suspected of possibly asking – Tom was quite right about one thing: Fanny Price was not stupid. "He won't."</p><p>"But what if he does?" she pressed, privately certain he <em>would</em>.</p><p>"Susie..." With her free hand, Fanny fiddled wretchedly with the amber cross dangling near her throat.</p><p>"You can't<em> really </em>think of refusing him if he asks nice and proper?" Susan propped herself up on her elbow. "If he even gets father's blessing?"</p><p>Fanny's miserable face showed she very much <em>could</em> think of that, and <em>had</em>, many times over, and was made greatly unhappy by the thought.</p><p>"I don't understand – you like him."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"He likes you; he isn't just playing."</p><p>"It would seem so, despite the unlikelihood of his affections being thus engaged."</p><p>"He's rich and charming and an <em>heir</em>."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"You've said yourself before he's no rake – you don't suddenly doubt him?"</p><p>"Not in faithfulness, no." Fanny had to confess that, for all his absent-minded ways, she thought Tom loyal enough generally. "But he has other faults."</p><p>"<em>Hmm</em>." Susan mulled over what she herself had seen of those unspoken faults for a moment. "But you can change him."</p><p>Part of Fanny wanted to point out, rather bitterly, that their own mother hadn't succeeded in changing much about their father's less than appealing habits, but such a remark was so far beyond the crux of the matter she felt no true need to put voice to the comparison.</p><p>Instead, she said what she was really feeling most keenly at the moment. She said, very quietly, "I don't <em>want</em> to."</p><p>"You don't want to marry him?" checked Susan, uncertain. "Or you don't want to change him?"</p><p>Eyes closed, she inhaled deeply. "Change him."</p><p>"Why not?" Susan's head lolled to the side quizzically. "Isn't that a <em>good</em> thing for a wife to do? <em>Shouldn't</em> a wife guide her husband? Make him behave better?"</p><p>Fanny shook her head, loose blonde curls shaking vehemently in front of her pale face. "No. I <em>can't</em> guide him." She stopped stroking Betsey's hair and flopped delicately onto her back, gazing up at the ceiling. "We all have our best guides within us, my dearest Susie. If only we would listen."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Proposals, Such As They Are</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Six:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Proposals, Such As They Are</em>
</p><p>He <em>did</em> ask her.</p><p>It happened like this.</p><p>The set up was very much that of Tom's earlier days with Fanny and Susan, taking them out walking along the harbour and the dockyard because their mother would send them on some errand and wouldn't have them go unescorted.</p><p>After all which had occurred, Fanny was hesitant to be so very near Tom Bertram, but she conceded on behalf of her younger sister's plea both for her health – certainly she <em>did</em> need to take the air – and their mutual amusement, subdued as it must be, muted by Tom's presence.</p><p>After all, one could only be shut up in the Price household and keep one's sanity in tact for so long.</p><p>Mr. Yates was walking behind them again, but this time – at Tom's signal, some nod or small twitch agreed upon between the pair that Fanny and Susan themselves were not cued into – John found some excuse for politely taking the younger Miss Price by the arm and leading her ahead. Perhaps he pointed to some seagull and declared she must see it, despite her having seen many a seagull in her fifteen years of life and one seagull being very much like another. Or he might have asked, apologetically, for some help with a task a five year old could have carried out unaided. And Susan must have guessed what they were really about, after a moment's confusion and subsequent hesitation, because she permitted it with a meekness that was uncharacteristic of herself, managed only by mimicking <em>Fanny's</em> usual demure mannerisms.</p><p>For his part, once all seemed in place, Tom stepped before Fanny. He even kneeled, taking her hand and kissing it, gazing up at her imploringly.</p><p>Fanny's eyes filled with tears – they were not happy ones. She did not want to injure either his feelings – which she judged to be true and fine despite everything – or cause grief to her own persistent lingering affection for him, but she could not forget the sort of husband she was convinced he would make.</p><p>A well-meaning but airy and preoccupied gentleman, who <em>might </em>have time and affection for a wife, and be truly wonderful for a while in expressing such tenderness with the most amiable of manners, so long as the racing season had not yet begun.</p><p>Worse than the preoccupation, his habit of drinking.</p><p>Fanny was no teetotaller. If it could have been afforded as a regularity in her household, she would have had no objection to wine or cordial for herself. But the snippets of Sunday sermons she'd managed to hear every week once her mother got them all into the church pew at the rear and quieted their complaints with hissed threats and sharp shushing, had put into her head moderation as key. And if the raspy preachers had not quite managed it in the short time they were allotted in her life, the frequent sight of her intoxicated father would have done the same trick well enough.</p><p>How could she consent to a life like her own mother's? Did she truly want to spend her nights listening for Tom's drunken footsteps when he returned home in the evening?</p><p>She couldn't imagine what their home would be like, never having seen Mansfield, but it scarcely mattered to her. She envisioned a house like their own Portsmouth home, only bigger and cleaner, and still cringed at the thought of waiting up for a sloshed husband to be dragged inside by blushing companions, who doubtless would not be the portrait of sobriety themselves, weakly apologising in broken, incoherent terms for 'disturbing the lady so late'.</p><p>But there was so much good in his character when he was not drunk or thinking about himself. Fanny should be very sorry to forever lose such a merry companion over her refusal, when they had found each other so terribly <em>recently</em>.</p><p>Must she really give him up?</p><p>She suffered, too, at the thought of – a few years from now – when he might have found his own inward guide and perhaps matured, and long forgotten Fanny and Portsmouth, his meeting someone else and marrying them instead.</p><p>Equally grim was the thought that he should <em>never</em> change, and should find someone willing to overlook the worst of his habits, to fawn and compliment him over the tiniest display of goodness, for the sake of his inheritance, in hopes of being the next Lady Bertram.</p><p>Why should some dishonest girl entirely ill-suited to him be rewarded for irrevocably spoiling what might have been a very admirable, clever sort of gentleman under better circumstances?</p><p>And beyond all the things which might or might not occur in the future, there remained the fact that <em>now</em> – as he asked the fatal question – he was looking at her in such a way as to make her heart feel too large to be contained in her poor, weak chest.</p><p>Fanny could not bear to disappoint all his hopes at once, though she wondered if it mightn't be the kinder course of action and was cross with herself for not simply making a clean break of it, for being so unable to tear herself away from him.</p><p>"<em>M-might</em>," she began, wiping at her eyes with the back of her wrist. "Might I have some time to think it over?"</p><p>Registering, with some visible relief, that she was not saying <em>no</em> – not in so many words, not yet – Tom recovered himself. "Yes, of course. If that's what you need."</p><p>Fanny exhaled.</p><p>"But–"</p><p>Her heart sank; her mouth and throat had gone dry and the tears had come up into her eyes all over again.</p><p>"If you mean to accept me" – he gave her a cheery little grin, genuine in its intentions if a little forced in action – "I hope you'll do it soon. It's not that I'm in a dreadful hurry – no need to rush, of course. I know you must have your moment to decide." He patted the hand he'd kissed. "Take your time. Naturally you must do that. It's just... Well, if you're going to be my wife, I don't want to return to Mansfield without you."</p><p>"You..." stammered Fanny. "You do not mean to have a long betrothal, to go home and come back..." She did not know why she thought such would be the case, given her familiarity with his rashness, but she had. "That is... Come back to fetch me later for the wedding?"</p><p>"Certainly<em> not</em>." He snorted. "What a damnable waste of time and sending carriages that would be! We'd be married <em>here</em>."</p><p>"I don't... I don't know if the local clergyman would... I mean, perhaps not so quickly as..."</p><p>"Oh, you needn't bother your head about that, dearest Fanny." His eyes were sparkling as he spoke, alight with hope, and it made her stomach ache. "If you agree, I'll send for Edmund. I shall tell him he has to come at once."</p><p>"<em>Edmund</em>?" she repeated, her pale brow knitting.</p><p>"My younger brother," he explained airily, waving it off. "The one you thought had a kind face when you saw my sketches. After all, whatever <em>is</em> the point in having your own personal priest in the family if you can't get married when you want to? I can think of no other reason the world has arranged matters so that younger brothers generally go all out for ordination."</p><p>Fanny privately suspected lack of funds for both eldest sons and their younger siblings to be proper heirs had rather a lot more to do with it than mere convenience towards an elder son who wished to be wed in a hurry, but she did not say so.</p><p>She found she could say very little, that her breath was caught within her throat, with Tom looking at her the way he currently was.</p><hr/><p>The next time Tom came to call, he found Fanny indisposed, and – hearing she should not come downstairs to see him – he lamented that no one had told him that – while she was making up her mind – he would not be permitted to see her and put further weight to his cause.</p><p>"An unfair trick, on my word," he said rather despondently, with a hint of sulkiness about the mouth.</p><p>"<em>I'll </em>marry you," Betsey put in, reaching up and squeezing his hand. "If Fanny doesn't want you."</p><p>"Thanks, Betsey." Tom visibly struggled to keep a straight face while her tiny one stared up adoringly into it. "I will most certainly remember that."</p><p>"That is very sweet of you, little Betsey," said their brother John, leaning against a wall and looking up from a paper he was reading – left unattended by their father earlier, no doubt – with an indolent smile.</p><p>"If <em>Fanny</em> doesn't want to be rich," she added pertly, stomping her little foot, "<em>I</em> don't mind it."</p><p>Tom bit down onto his lower lip to avoid bursting into riotous laughter in spite of himself. He knew once he began, he'd be rolling over in unrestrained mirth, unable to stop. It shouldn't be nearly so funny as, indeed, it was.</p><p>"That was <em>almost</em> nice," grumbled Susan, prying Betsey away from Tom. "Fanny isn't <em>well</em>, Mr. Bertram. She's not avoiding you."</p><p>"<em>Tom</em>, please," he corrected her, appearing unconvinced of her words.</p><p>"She's having one of her headaches," she went on, "and it's very bad this time."</p><p>It was only then that Tom seemed to realise how pale and harried Susan looked, despite her generally rosy cheeks and good health. She appeared exactly as someone who had been running back and forth from ill sister to demanding mother all day<em> would</em>.</p><p>"Well, well," said he, a touch shakily. "How long has she had it?"</p><p>"Since yesterday evening – she was too long in front of the window and then the stove."</p><p>He seemed to be thinking. "I will return within the hour – and I would like either your father's permission or your mother's to go up to see her when I do."</p><p>Susan's brow furrowed. "I don't think–"</p><p>"Then pray <em>don't</em> – no one is requiring it of you – just ask one them for me, all right?"</p><p>She had never heard Tom speak so snappishly before, and considered telling him off, or simply not doing as he asked, but she did neither of those things and – when he did indeed return as he'd promised, bringing something with him – Susan's understanding of the matter improved, seeing what he was about, and her good opinion towards him was not only restored but<em> bettered</em>.</p><hr/><p>Fanny generally had a very meagre appetite. She was picky and uneasy when it came to food. And even her small wants and preferences and lack of quantity in her eating habits were rarely satisfied, the little biscuits and things she preferred often seeming be the first things to vanish at the table between so many hungry children and a hungover father.</p><p>The exception to this was whenever she first woke up from a particularly bad headache.</p><p>Whether or not she could do anything about it, she would find herself ravenous and longing to eat something. An unusual craving for salt or fruit or citrus tended to accompany this gnawing, uncharacteristic hunger as well. Sometimes Susan could add her own allotment of butter onto Fanny's small piece of toast, or part of a bruised plum that had not gone entirely bad yet could be spared for her – Rebecca had once, feeling badly for Fanny, given her almost an entire pear that was only partly mealy – but most times she simply needed to make do, to ignore the hunger until it – like the headache which preceded it – passed on its own.</p><p>She awoke, head still feeling feeble, eyes unfocused and stomach empty but also unbearably <em>sour</em>, to find a three-legged stool placed beside the mattress and a little bound-up handkerchief (of a kind far too nice to belong to anyone in her family) balanced on the cracked seat of it.</p><p>If it had only been the stool, with nothing upon it, Fanny would have naturally assumed Susan had been sitting there earlier, watching over her. Even though Susan usually just sat on the mattress beside her.</p><p>Taking up the handkerchief, she undid the knot at the top and, as it fluttered open, beheld a handful of the most beautiful red raspberries she'd ever seen. She couldn't remember the last time she'd even <em>tasted</em> raspberries, let alone seen so many in one bundle.</p><p>The closet door creaked and Susan came in. "Tom left that for you."</p><p>She knew Susan could not mean their little brother, that she must mean her own suitor, and blushed. Tom had been in here? Alone? While she slept?</p><p>"He came in for only an hour, and he got Mother's permission first," Susan explained. "He sat with you until the time was up, then said something about going to meet Mr. Yates at the dockyard for a drink, and he left those behind. He said not to let Betsey get at them, that he'd bring some for her next time if she wanted but those were for your head.</p><p>"Said his mother – our Aunt, Lady Bertram – swears by eating those after a headache; it's supposed to help with the pain."</p><p>The tears in Fanny's eyes could not all be blamed upon her headache as she spilled the brilliant red berries into her lap and studied the little embroidered initials on the now-empty handkerchief.</p><p>The elegant T and B were joined together with a flourish of shimmery grey thread.</p><p>Who had sewn these for him, she wondered. His mother? Her other aunt? One of his sisters?</p><p>Would <em>she </em>be sewing and embroidering things for him, if she accepted his proposal?</p><p>Supposing he did not think her work fine enough? He might be careless in manner, but he was also fussy. He might think her needlework crude, or subpar compared to what he was used to. Even her mother had never found fault with Fanny's tiny, neat stitches, but the thought of his – despite him being a man – disapproval on the matter made her feel uneasy.</p><p>And if not him, then perhaps Lady Bertram would not like her work – and a mother-in-law's disapproval must be as unsought as a would be a husband's.</p><p>She shook herself out of it, and brought a raspberry to her mouth, popping it in and chewing slowly, enjoying its sweet juice and decadent taste. It could not matter what he thought of her sewing, because she still could not bring herself to imagine accepting him.</p><p>Despite everything, despite this unexpected kindness, despite how it was killing her inside, despite knowing no one half so dear to her as he'd become would ever ask her again, she could still see no other way through this but to give him up.</p><p>The tears coursed down her cheeks.</p><p>"Oh, <em>Fanny</em>," said Susan.</p><p>"It's nothing – only my head," she croaked out, after swallowing.</p><hr/><p>Susan observed Fanny – slow and wearied, pallid and brought down to a state such as even the worst of her headaches had never left her in before – over the next few days, and feared greatly for her elder sister.</p><p>Supposing, she fretted, sitting up one night and pacing the baseboard floor and tapping her fingertips on the side of the closet door anxiously, that Fanny's upcoming rejection of Tom Bertram should destroy not only the delicate girl's happiness but also whatever remained of her fragile health?</p><p>The next morning, watching Fanny pack away some sewing things so they could make up the mattress before going downstairs, Susan saw that she'd kept Tom's handkerchief as well as two or three of the smaller, older gifts of his Betsey had discarded in favour of newer ones. She noticed their neat little places fixed so sweetly in Fanny's personal workbox, between her best pair of scissors and the little – nearly bare – bobbins of sparse thread, the places her sister usually had reserved only for things given to her by their brother William – her amber cross, on the extremely rare occasion she was not wearing it, tended to occupy the same space.</p><p>It was then she decided she must do something. Susan was never one to go to her mother for help – she and Fanny were not much to her, for starters, and the exhausted, worked-to-the-bone, impatient woman did not usually have much advice to spare them, even if she had loved them better than she did. If they had been boys, considering going off to sea or taking up employment, she might have had something more to say to them. But, as they were not, when it came to important matters, so long as they did not break the rules of the house or cause shame to the family, they were very much on their own.</p><p>But, at a loss, fists clenched at her side, throat and mouth full of gall, Susan went to her about this matter.</p><p>Mrs. Price barely glanced up from the pot she was stirring, and Susan found herself wondering, perhaps uncharitably, whether her mother – save for when she was mending things or screaming – was ever <em>not</em> bent over the stove like a fairy-tale witch and – in an ill temper – insisting, upon catching sight of any of her girls besides Betsey, they join her.</p><p>"Mother, did you hear me?"</p><p>"<em>Susan</em>," she sighed with exasperation, "it's a good offer – your father and I have no objections – but if she doesn't love him, I don't see what–"</p><p>"She <em>does</em> love him," Susan interrupted, heedless of the smack she might get if Mrs. Price decided she was being rude, cutting her off and speaking to her in such a tone. "I know it."</p><p>Mrs. Price did not strike her daughter. Instead, she dropped the wooden spoon and stared at Susan with something that might have been actual interest. "Then why do you think she will refuse him?"</p><p>Susan inhaled deeply, closing her eyes and taking a step back from the heat of the noisy old stove. She was not, she thought, out of the way of that possible smack just yet. "Don't you <em>know</em>?"</p><hr/><p>When Mrs. Price asked – though it was not a question, not the way she phrased it, nothing to which a yes or no might be put up – her eldest daughter to come out and take a walk with her, through Portsmouth, rather far into twilit, hazy evening, an hour at which none of them ever went out except for when William was home and cajoled his doting mother into letting him take his sisters on a stroll down towards the harbour, Fanny thought her mother might actually have gone mad. Perhaps just a little bit.</p><p>She wouldn't even let Tom Bertram take them out at this hour, Fanny was fairly certain, especially not now that he had declared himself a suitor rather than merely a cousin. So what could she want – just the two of them – mother and daughter – with a walk together now? What about all the things Rebecca hadn't done? Didn't Betsey need something or other? Or Father? Where was Father? When had Fanny last seen him? In his usual place by the fire? Or had that been one of her brothers sitting in his chair while he was still out drinking? When he came home, at any possible moment, if he wasn't within the house already, wouldn't he ask where his wife was?</p><p>The boys...they... Had they had their supper yet?</p><p>But Mrs. Price silenced her timid objections firmly, and almost gently, too. They needed to go. They needed to have a talk, just the two of them.</p><p>Never in Fanny's life had there been a need for them to talk alone. She racked her mind, struggling to think of anything that might warrant a private conversation between herself and her mother.</p><p>Finally, she thought, her light eyes wide and brimming over with tears (as they always seemed to be those days, despite her best efforts), <em>William. Something has happened to William at sea, some misfortune, and Mother has got word of it first and she's–</em></p><p>"Mother..."</p><p>"Let us go a little further away from the house, Fanny – then we'll talk."</p><p>When they had gone several steps, turned a sharp corner off their own narrow street, and were walking – rather precariously, Fanny thought, given the growing darkness – in the seaward direction, she finally burst out, "<em>William</em>–"</p><p>Her mother was perplexed. "William?"</p><p>"Isn't..." She swallowed. "Hasn't... You haven't gotten any word...from...?"</p><p>"This has nothing to do with your brother, Fanny."</p><p>Relief washed over her, bringing a flush to her cold, pinched cheeks. So long as William was all right, she felt could endure nearly anything else.</p><p>Mrs. Price looked at her askance. "Susan says you're in love with Tom Bertram."</p><p>
  <em>Nearly.</em>
</p><p>Nearly anything else.</p><p>Fanny shook her head, the biting wind catching and tugging at her loosened curls like invisible brambles, but she did not mean <em>no</em> by the motion. She meant that she could not – perhaps could never – <em>say</em>.</p><p>She glanced down at her hands, entwining her cold, raw fingers. "Susan doesn't understand."</p><p>"There is no shame, none whatever, in marrying either for money or for love – both are parts of life, and these are the choices most women must make eventually."</p><p>Mustering a courage that nearly drained her, nearly made her feel like fainting to be so bold to say such a thing to her mother, even quietly and gently as she put it, Fanny whispered, "<em>You</em> married for love."</p><p>"Fanny," she sighed, "there are not so many men of large fortune out in the world as there are women who deserve them."</p><p>Fanny did not <em>say </em>her mother would have married her father regardless of this fact and, indeed, <em>had</em>. She did not <em>need</em> to say it, however, it was written all over her face – it was scrawled, in the clearest of hands, across her burning cheeks and her eyes which shone brightly with shame at their own shocking boldness.</p><p>"And you have seen what I got for it," said her mother, simply, as if her daughter <em>had</em> spoken the thought aloud, "and think it a very unhappy lot."</p><p>She didn't deny it.</p><p>"You've never had a life of even relative comfort," Mrs. Price went on. "You cannot know what you'd be giving up."</p><p>None of that <em>mattered</em>. Fanny didn't care about Tom's money, or being Lady Bertram one day, or living in a big house, nice as she supposed those things objectively were, in a distantly, logically acknowledged way – if that was all she would lose in giving him up, she could bear it easily enough.</p><p>"It's about more than luxury or vanity – you know you've never been very strong." Mrs. Price's eyes stared out sadly beyond Fanny's shoulder. "We don't speak of poor little Mary much, but part of me has always wondered that you've never understood how close <em>you've</em> been at times to joining her in the grave. Portsmouth has never been good for you, but it wasn't as if we had anything else to offer. I should not regret – not for an instant – his taking you away from this place."</p><p>"I think, Mother, that you've worried..." Her voice trailed off. Because, as she knew all too well, her mother was not one to worry about her unnecessarily. She was not a boy and she was not Betsey. If her mother had ever feared for her life, even when she did not say so, it had not been without cause. The thought was sobering.</p><p>"Have you considered what your other options would be?"</p><p>Fanny shrugged.</p><p>"I don't think you'd do well marrying a Portsmouth boy."</p><p>"I could–" Her voice cracked. "I could stay..."</p><p>"You can't stay home forever – we won't <em>be</em> here always. And you can't work long hours with your poor health. You'd never keep the house up on your own."</p><p>"William might send..."</p><p>"William is a midshipman, who has – as yet – not succeeded in making lieutenant. Can barely afford to look after himself, just too bleedin' proud to admit it, God bless him." And here Mrs. Price's eyes grew slightly reproachful in their regarding Fanny. "You can't be selfish enough to expect that poor young man to pay for the expenses of a spinster sister for his entire life?"</p><p>Fanny demurred, then conceded, unrealistically, at the tragic thought of putting poor William into poverty for her sake, that she <em>might</em> marry a Portsmouth boy one day, if one... Oh, it was<em> laughable</em>, if only the situation were not so grave! If one proved agreeable. And that was about as likely as the strange pig her younger brothers kept bringing into the house suddenly growing a pair of gossamer wings and flying off into the sunset.</p><p>Her wearied mother was not – she thought – taken in. "The walls in our house are thin – you know, you've <em>heard</em>, what it is to be married."</p><p>Fanny wished the ground would swallow her. It might be less mortifying if what her mother said was untrue. She'd been hearing those noises since long before she could understand them. When she was much younger, she had been afraid their father was <em>hurting</em> their mother, and had cried, and William – finding her sobbing on the other side of their parents' bedroom door – had had to explain as best he was able.</p><p>"I know we've never been close, child," – she almost sounded sorry for it – "but I do think of you. I do<em> know</em> you. It's not an easy thing to speak of, but it needs to be said, just once. I imagine, Fanny, that a gentleman might be more patient with you when it comes to such matters than a fishmonger would. Do you understand my meaning?"</p><p>She nodded miserably.</p><p>"And if you love Tom Bertram, well, so much the better." Her eyes took on that lost, distant look again. "Most girls are not offered both money and love in one proposal – count yourself fortune for it!"</p><p>She could hold back no longer. "He <em>drinks</em>, Mother!" Perhaps her voice was too loud, yet she herself could hardly hear it – it seemed to ring, at far too low a timbre, in her cold ears.</p><p>If she had said 'he <em>breathes</em>, Mother,' she might have gotten a more concerned reaction. "A great <em>many</em> men are partial to that."</p><p>"That does not make it–" she began, her indignant voice coming out somewhat screechy.</p><p>"It's somewhat different in a <em>wealthy</em> man," Mrs. Price told her next, cutting her off. "There are servants to pull him off the ground when he makes a fool of himself." And, she added, with a meaningful side-eye, there were doubtless many rooms within Mansfield Fanny might retreat to if she had a headache or judged her husband's temperament after an outing to be too belligerent. "It's not like Portsmouth. The world – the world you haven't seen, child – is not like Portsmouth."</p><p>While this argument did not properly weaken her resolve to refuse Tom, Fanny had to confess she'd not considered that side of things. She had not considered the fact that, while her current home had no quiet places to slink off to, no way to avoid confrontation, <em>Tom's</em> home might have a great many inviting nooks and crannies.</p><p>"It's such a remarkable thing," Mrs. Price exclaimed, taking her child's arm and starting to lead them back in the direction of the house.</p><p>"What is?" Fanny asked.</p><p>"How timing can work out by pure chance."</p><p>Fanny did not understand; she furrowed her brow.</p><p>"If Maria's son had discovered we were here, and his own poor relations, only eight years earlier than this – he might still have been looking for a wife; he'd have been" – she thought for a moment, counting back in her head – "he'd have been seventeen. Which is a <em>little</em> young, perhaps, but not outrageous for an heir thinking of his future. But you wouldn't have been old enough for him to look twice at."</p><p>Fanny nodded. She would have been about ten years old. Not that she could imagine a seventeen year old Tom thinking about the matter as her mother did. He wouldn't have been looking for a bride. Indeed, she somewhat suspected the only reason he had begun to look at her, before coming to know more of her and deciding he wanted to marry her, was a sort of rebellion against what might be expected of him. It was the only explanation which made sense. Otherwise, he'd have gone to balls in London looking to take a liking to someone – not a dance hall in Portsmouth.</p><p>"You look a good deal like her."</p><p>"Like who, Mother?" She blinked rapidly, and nearly stumbled over a loose stone in the road.</p><p>"My sister Maria – Tom's mother."</p><p>"Did Sir Thomas look..."</p><p>"Like <em>your</em> Tom Bertram?"</p><p><em>He's not </em>my<em> Tom Bertram</em>, Fanny thought, shaking her head for what felt like the thousandth time that night.</p><p>"Yes, indeed." Her mother went on as if she hadn't noticed – perhaps she truly hadn't; it had gotten quite dark. "But he had a very different way about his person. Much more sombre. He rarely laughed or cracked a smile. I often wondered how Maria could stand it! Your father was just the opposite! Always making jokes."</p><p>And for a moment, lost in reveries of the past, Mrs. Price was a young Ward girl again; her barely visible face belonged a sparkling young woman Fanny had never known.</p><p>Fanny had never thought twice about what her father must have been like as a young man, she knew from the manner of jokes he still made exactly what he was in youth; but she was amazed to discover she might have <em>liked</em> the younger version of her mother, Miss Frances Ward, if they met on the street, despite their stark differences. And that made her feel rather ungrateful as she realised she did <em>not</em> like her mother as she was now – a grumpy married woman who was worn out and did not do anything with most of her children – that she had no feelings for her beyond a familial love and a forced, begrudging kind of respect.</p><p>She wondered, in a strange moment of sad clarity, as they came in sight of the house and her mother returned to her usual preoccupied self now that she could cross her talk with Fanny off her list of chores that needed doing, if poor Tom might not – to a lesser extent, given <em>she</em> was a gentlewoman – feel much the same way about his own mother.</p><p>If they might not have that much, at least, in common.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Acceptance, Being Resigned To Present Happiness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Seven:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Acceptance, Being Resigned To Present Happiness</em>
</p><p>There wasn't – given the narrowness of the street – a great deal of space outside of the Prices' house in which to hang laundry, but Mrs. Price had managed – not without a great deal of quarrelling with her neighbours in the process – to set up a short washing line nonetheless. She ignored the protests that it was a safety hazard, as – indeed – if her own clumsy, noisy children managed to steer clear of it, it seemed to her other children could do just as well. More frequent were the complaints that it crossed (though, to be sure, if it did, it was only by the length of Mrs. Price's own toe) into the property of another tenant.</p><p>Heedless of this – and of numerous threats and of it being cut down mysteriously in the night more than once – Mrs. Price regularly employed the makeshift line to hold any washing which could not be counted upon to dry somewhere within the house. It was not usual for one of her elder daughters to be seen balancing on a rickety stool before the line with a basket of sopping under-things belonging to Mr. Price and a set of wooden pegs.</p><p>Those local girls who did not like Fanny – and had been rather affronted at being slighted by Tom Bertram in obvious favour of their sworn nemesis last Assembly Night – saw them going about it, and it was not unheard of for them to stop to see if it was <em>Fanny</em> who was out that day so that they might kick the stool from under her and feign horror at the dreadful accident.</p><p>On this particular day, it <em>was</em> Fanny, for Susan was inside trying to break up a fight between Charles and Tom over that poor pig Rebecca had still not managed to get rid of. Rather than take the opportunity for a practical joke, the ringleader, passing her, actually decided to stop and <em>speak</em> – something of an event in and of itself.</p><p>Fanny was unabashedly curious despite her disdain. What<em> could</em> she have to say?</p><p>"So, your Mr. Bertram is leaving, I hear." She tossed back her head. "Gotten bored with you, I suppose. Can't really blame him, can we? Anyone would."</p><p>"I'm afraid I do not understand you." Fanny blinked down at her and wobbled a little on the stool.</p><p>She smiled up with a false sweetness. "Why, I've just come from the inn where he's staying" – she named one, matter of factly – "and the innkeeper said Mr. Bertram was packing his things to move out."</p><p>"You weren't at the inn," said Fanny, decidedly.</p><p>"I was! After I talked to the innkeeper, I even <em>saw </em>him – Mr. Bertram – this was less than a quarter hour ago – with a trunk. That prig Mr. Yates was with him; he had a trunk as well."</p><p>And she doubted her own surety. It might be a lie. It probably was a lie. But supposing... Just supposing... Supposing he had tired of waiting for her answer, or – and here she thought with warmth and far more charity – there was some family emergency and he needed to be gone from Portsmouth in a great hurry...? Supposing Mr. Yates – with all good intentions, of course – had convinced his companion to depart for some reason or other?</p><p>She ought to be pleased, Fanny knew. <em>Relieved</em>. She need never answer him if he jilted her before they were even betrothed. Her mother should never blame her for not accepting him if it were <em>he</em> who ran off without a word.</p><p>But the knowledge that he was going with no goodbye – and she should see him perhaps never again – was an unexpected, unbearable weight. It was as a stone she could not lift and tear away though it hurt dreadfully, though it was crushing her utterly.</p><p>Fanny scarcely knew what she was doing as she let the wooden pegs fall from her hand, and allowed a steaming piece of linen (which honestly still looked a bit dirty even after being thoroughly washed) to drop into the ground with a <em>hiss</em> and a <em>splat</em>, and as she alighted from her stool. She spared the smug messenger no thought, hardly even a <em>look</em>, as she began to tear down the street as quickly as she could.</p><p>She was nearly run over by both a carriage and a cart respectively, and it wasn't until she'd reached the front of the inn that Fanny realised she was not wearing a bonnet, her hair hanging quite loose, and the front of her dress was damp and closed incorrectly. She must look positively mad – someone might grab her and lock her up in asylum, for going about with so frightful an appearance – but there was no help for it now. Nor was there help for the fact that the air was getting colder and she had no coat or gloves for the walk back, which would no doubt feel much longer than the race here.</p><p>Making her way, shaking, through the front door of the inn, a warped wooden sign flapping noisily above her bare head, she breathlessly asked for the innkeeper.</p><p>The innkeeper, when brought forth, looked her up and down. She seemed vaguely familiar to him – perhaps he saw the faintest resemblance to Mr. Price from the dockyard in her harried expression – but he seemed to conclude that, while she was almost certainly a local girl, he did not know her and could not say which one personally, nor who her folks were.</p><p>She got out, barely, "<em>Mr. Bertram</em>," and despite her clothing not matching the idea in his head, he wondered – aloud – if he'd been wrong to presume her locality after all. Was she was one of Mr. Bertram's relations, possibly a sister? If so, whatever had possessed her to come looking for her brother here, dressed like a poor lieutenant's daughter?</p><p>She <em>was</em> one of Tom's relations, of course, but not in the way the innkeeper thought, and she did not know how to answer. She gawked silently, helplessly. She wanted to know if Tom had left yet – if she had missed him – that was all.</p><p>But her voice was entirely failing her.</p><p>Then, behind her, "<em>Fanny</em>?"</p><p>She gasped and spun around. "Tom?" She blurted out the familiar address before she could think about it.</p><p>"Good heavens, Fanny – you're so pale – you look like you've just seen a ghost."</p><p>"I... I thought... I thought..." And she tried, for all she was worth, to <em>think</em>.</p><p>"You <em>know </em>this young lady, Mr. Bertram?"</p><p>Tom nodded and waved him away. "For mercy's sake, Fanny! You must be <em>freezing</em>." He took in Fanny's trembling form and how heavily she was panting. "Come on, let me take you upstairs. Warm up in front of the fire with a nice glass of mulled wine, and then you can tell me what's happened."</p><p>His hands, folding over her own, were so warm. A fire sounded heavenly. His face was so earnest and comforting, despite the playfulness in the back of his eyes which – she was growing increasingly aware – never did leave them altogether, no matter what was happening.</p><p>It would have been the easiest thing in the world to let him lead her to his room.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>She shook her head, pulled her hands out of his.</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>," he laughed, some small shred of comprehension dawning on his face, "it's all <em>right</em> – Mr. Yates will be there. We won't be alone."</p><p>Poor Tom. He was more of an innocent than Fanny took him for if he really believed another young man's presence in the room absolved them of all impropriety. More likely, he didn't really think it through. He probably never stopped to consider the difference between Mr. Yates being present in his room and, perhaps, <em>Mr. Yates' grandmother</em> being present, for example. To him any other person could be a suitable chaperone.</p><p>Fanny found it charming, and rather sweet, but she did so wish he would just stop looking at her pathetically and <em>think</em>. It would take only a moment. He was a smart man – it would come to him if he thought hard for a second or two.</p><p>If word got around about one of the Miss Prices going up into a gentleman's room at a local inn, unaccompanied, regardless of what happened within, Fanny would be in serious trouble. A tarnished reputation was only the start of what she'd endure. Mr. Price had – on reading accounts in the paper of other young women behaving wantonly – threatened more than once that if his daughters ever did a thing like that, he'd whip them senseless. Father had never whipped any of his children before, nor struck them – at least not purposefully – with anything harder than his own fist, but Fanny didn't doubt his willingness, not if there was a real scandal.</p><p>In truth, if Susan had not spoken up when she did, the morning after Tom spent the night with their brothers, Fanny still hated to think what might have occurred.</p><p>And how she'd come running in here... To then go up to Tom's room... Good Lord, how <em>shocking</em> it would seem!</p><p>"No." Her voice was a squeak.</p><p>"Right then – if you're that worried about it – we'll just pop into the kitchen instead – they've always got a fire going." Tom gripped her sagging shoulders and cheerfully guided her away from the stairs and past a pantry; then he set her before a roaring fire.</p><p>She spread her hands over it gratefully.</p><p>He rubbed her arms. "I still can't believe you ran all this way looking for me."</p><p>She shrugged out of his grasp and inched her shivering body closer to the fire. "It was a misunderstanding."</p><p>He raised an eyebrow, and she told him what happened – how she'd thought him leaving Portsmouth.</p><p>And, <em>indeed</em>, then, he assured her, it <em>was</em> a misunderstanding, for no such thing had been occurring as his leaving even the inn. Let alone Portsmouth. He and Yates had simply removed themselves from their old room and placed their belongings in a new one with a better view at the innkeeper's own welcome suggestion.</p><p>"So you ran from your house to here, in this state, just to say goodbye to me?"</p><p>She couldn't deny it. "I'm sorry."</p><p>"No, no – you needn't apologise." Tom closed the gap between them. "I'm <em>flattered</em>." His arm slipped around her waist and he gently nudged her so she'd turn and face him. "My poor creepmouse braving the elements just to get one last glimpse of me before I vanished from sight."</p><p>"You're making fun of me," Fanny said darkly.</p><p>"Oh, only a <em>little</em>." He bent his head forward and pressed his lips to hers.</p><p>It was so different from the kiss he'd given her in front of her family, or the drunken sloppy kisses he'd planted on her neck outside the cloak room; this was so gentle and tender. This one felt <em>real</em>. She couldn't help sinking against him and gripping his forearms. She felt as if she were melting.</p><p>They broke apart. Fanny breathed shakily. Tom sighed and leaned in again. One of his hands pressed against the small of her back, holding her against him.</p><p>He moaned lightly – she felt it rumble through her body so intensely she nearly wondered if <em>she'd</em> been the one to moan and not him after all.</p><p>Enveloped in warmth and sweetness, Fanny became too aware of how easy it might be to just let go of everything. To forget the full situation, to think of nothing but what she wanted in this moment. She could reach up and put her arms around his neck. She could part her lips and let Tom's waiting, impatient tongue inside her mouth – it would happen so quickly, and it would be <em>nice</em>, and she would <em>enjoy</em> it...</p><p>She pulled back, panting. "<em>Stop</em>. Please don't do this. We mustn't."</p><p>Tom blinked rapidly, looking as if he'd been far away and only returned to himself that very moment upon her urging. "<em>God</em>, Fanny – do try to remember I'm only a man. You need to have <em>some </em>mercy on me."</p><p>How could she tell him it <em>was</em> mercy that held her back? Mercy for him, because none of this meant she'd made up her mind.</p><p>"I'm <em>sorry</em>," she gasped out, unable to look at him. "I need to go home."</p><p>Tom looked bemused and frustrated, but he softened at her wretched expression and so took her hand chastely, the very same way he'd have taken one of his sister's hands, and led her back to the Prices' house, assuring her in a airy, cheery undertone that some excuse could be made her for confusion, for her having run off, and that he'd make it if she liked, it really was all right, and to please not cry again.</p><p>Before he left her with Susan, who was at the door to meet them, he told Fanny he would be by for a visit tomorrow if she had no objections.</p><p>Her heart beat wildly. Of course she must have objections! Of <em>course</em>. Seeing him and not seeing him were equally terrible to her. But she only nodded her consent, for it seemed to matter so little, either way, and let Susan take her upstairs.</p><p>The cold became a pounding, icy rain that rattled their bedroom window, and Fanny was awake most of the night, in a daze, listening to it.</p><p>Cold and harsh, but clean, like it was wiping the world away – washing away all the harsh edges and grime and leaving something slick and new behind. She wondered if it would turn to snow.</p><p>She thought of Tom, and tried to imagine living with him. She mightn't be happy all of the time, but no one was.</p><p>She wasn't happy all of the time <em>now</em>.</p><p>He'd hurt her, one day. No one so reckless as he could be could make it through life with someone as oversensitive as Fanny knew herself to be without inflicting a serious wound.</p><p>The truth was she was afraid of the pain he could cause her. To accept Tom would be like putting a fine crystal bowl into the hands of a clumsy person and hoping they wouldn't drop it. Not that she saw herself as being so valuable as crystal – indeed, she was perhaps not the lowest of the low, but she was pretty near to it. Her self awareness on this matter, prevented from sinking too low from a sort of uppity pride her whole family had always had, was unwavering. She did think herself as breakable as crystal. She <em>wanted</em> to be strong, as it seemed a good character trait to have, but – perhaps due to her physical limitations and her inability to get along without weeping when she felt strong emotion – always felt she'd failed somewhere along the way in that regard.</p><p>"Are you still awake?" Susan asked her, rising from her place beside Betsey – who moaned in her sleep and rolled over, making little smacking noises with her mouth – and padding over to her sister.</p><p>Fanny nodded, then pressed her forehead against the glass.</p><p>"Have you been thinking about Tom?"</p><p>"And other things," she lied.</p><p>"I wish you'd marry him after all, Fanny."</p><p>Reaching up and drawing back, Fanny rubbed out a rough pattern of little interlocked flowers onto the foggy pane with her fingertip, then she breathed on it to make it disappear.</p><p>"I don't want to be hurt," Fanny admitted in a hoarse whisper, sniffing. "No one could ever disappoint me so very easily as..."</p><p>"Oh, Fanny, I know." Susan put her arm around her. "It's not untrue. If you go ahead and refuse him, you <em>might</em> not be let down by him." She tightened her grasp, squeezing consolingly. "But you won't be loved by him, either. You <em>can't</em> be. Not if you give him up."</p><hr/><p>The next morning the day was clear, and Fanny awoke late, to her great surprise. The noise of the house had not roused her, and no one had shaken her awake, insisting she get up and help with the daily chores. Perhaps Susan had interceded on her behalf, given the day she'd had yesterday, as well as the long, long night thinking it over afterwards.</p><p>The house was not entirely silent, there was still muffled scuffling and the usual noises of things being moved indelicately and small quarrels working themselves out, but it was a lot quieter than usual.</p><p>Fanny leaned into a shaft of sunlight coming in from the window and let it warm her face. She'd missed one of the flower patterns she'd drawn when she breathed them away, and this remaining one cast a daisy-shaped shadow onto the floorboard beside the mattress.</p><p>She looked at it for a few moments before getting up and hastening to dress.</p><p>There was a voice – rising up from downstairs in the same vague manner in which heat rises through thin floors on a muggy day – along with the muffled din, which sounded as if it were reciting or else reading something aloud.</p><p>It was indistinct, the words could not be made out, only the general shape of their being spoken in a way that was theatrical rather than conversational.</p><p>Dressed and making her way down the stairs, Fanny finally recognised the reader.</p><p>
  <em>Tom.</em>
</p><p>Her own Tom Bertram.</p><p>Even as she entered the room and saw him by the fire, seated in Mr Price's usual chair, holding a battered-looking book, Fanny still couldn't work out what he was reading. (She deduced, after a little consideration, that – as the book came from their own paltry library, and they did not see many books in the house – it must be either the old family Bible or else the worn volume of Milton given to them by poor Mary's godparents, who had been very attentive to the family, back when their goddaughter was still living, and were – through no cruel intent – seldom heard from nowadays.) Seemingly without it being his intention, Mr. Bertram recited so dreadfully quickly as to be unintelligible. She felt sorry for what he must have put his reading tutors through as a boy, and yet she would not have had him be a fine, captivating reader for all the world – for then he wouldn't be himself.</p><p>Tom and Charles were sitting on the floor in front of him and Betsey was seated on the arm of the chair so that she might rest her small chin on his shoulder and cling to him like a girl-shaped barnacle, apparently glancing down at the page from time to time with exaggerated interest although she'd not yet learned to read, sincerely believing the alphabet was her greatest enemy.</p><p>Straining, trying to make her mind speed up to the level of Tom's bombastic, jittery voice, Fanny began to catch snippets of his speech.</p><p>"...Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight..."</p><p>The hurried, almost slurred inflection of his tone, punctuated by a need to pause for breath at awkward intervals, ironically made it sound more like, "Heaven's, a'last" – as could be taken as <em>at last</em> by some ears – "best gift, m'ever new d'light."</p><p>Fanny came fully into the room and stationed herself behind her little brothers. Tom glanced up, eyes darting in her direction briefly, the corners of his mouth raised in pleasure.</p><p>And in that short locking of their eyes, Fanny suddenly knew. She knew with a certainty that – whatever happened, for their misery or happiness – she would accept him. She would marry Tom Bertram. She knew it as she had never known anything before. She felt as if she were her own future self looking back in time, as if it had already happened and nothing she could say or do now would stop it anyway.</p><p>It was meant to be, with so much set against it, and yet... Oh, yes, and <em>yet</em>...</p><p>Unable to keep this remarkable revelation to herself, she nodded at him, almost imperceptibly.</p><p>For a moment, she believed he had missed it. Then his eyes were on her again, questioning, his mouth still automatically spluttering out the words of John Milton but his mind clearly on Fanny Price and Fanny Price alone.</p><p>She nodded, again, and this time – when the tears sprang up – they were happy ones.</p><p>"<em>Yes</em>," she mouthed, just so there could be no doubt.</p><p>If any gentleman in Portsmouth were happier than Tom Bertram in that hour, when his joy was instantly fixed upon in so small yet so significant a gesture, free even from any fear of a retraction (no one who looked as Fanny did right then could have taken back their acquiescence), there was no record of it.</p><p>As for Fanny...</p><p>Fanny, who was perfectly aware she had completely trapped herself, that she could never get out, that she had secured herself behind the bars of a cage which, even if it were wrenched opened, she would never bring herself to fly from, as for<em> her</em>...</p><p>Well, she was eighteen, and in love with a gentleman who thought her angelically beautiful, and – for the moment – it was enough.</p><hr/><p>Edmund Bertram, preparing to quit Thornton Lacey, was distressed to receive another letter from his elder brother.</p><p>Tom had had so many frivolous letters franked in the past (including one which proved only to have one line: 'Do be a lamb and bring my good riding whip, when next you are in London; I have left it behind me like a proper ninny') that Sir Thomas had cut him off, and most companions whom Tom kept up correspondence with were obliged to pay for his missives upon receiving them.</p><p>The last letter Edmund had received spoke of Tom's love for an unnamed woman. Nothing should have been more surprising than Tom's suddenly having a sweetheart, save for the fact that the letter was posted from Portsmouth, a place he refused – to his parents' bewilderment – to quit for reasons which had previously been an alarming mystery to them all.</p><p><em>I cannot tell you, brother, just now, who she is, for I fear I have gotten ahead of myself in writing to you about her at all – she has not accepted me, and I was resolved not to write you until she relents. To seem to be plotting against her wishes, this I cannot suffer. But I will have great need of you if she accepts. Perhaps you can guess why? I will only say that when you do learn her identity, you shall no doubt have a great shock. But, then, she is amiable and so pleasant to look at with due admiration – I cannot even so much as </em>think<em> of an amber cross now without recalling her fine neck and the cross she wears strung upon a ribbon and being quite struck. I tell you, if you can't like her on sight, despite everything, Edmund, then your head is not on right and your opinion is not worth my noticing. Alas, she is shy, and I must wait. I cannot quit my suit prematurely. It would be badly done. After all, she loves me, so what I else can I do? At any rate, I think you will reassure our Father I am not dead and that the unpleasant letters burning in the fireplace of my room were indeed respectfully read before being thus discarded? Between ourselves, it was the only warmth I found in the purpose of those missives at all.</em></p><p>Unnerved, and unable to disclose Tom's real errand to their parents, Edmund had decided to attempt to get a fuller view of the situation by writing to Maria.</p><p>Was there, he asked, any chance Tom had fallen in love with a girl in London before carrying the romance onto Portsmouth?</p><p>Such might confirm, despite the unlikelihood, that his choice was at least a <em>lady</em> – Edmund did not personally care about the status of who his brother might love, of course, so long as she was not connected to any moral scandal, but he knew of several persons who would go to pieces if they heard of Mr. Bertram marrying dramatically beneath himself.</p><p>Maria had written back that she did not know Tom fancied anyone in particular, and was Edmund having a go at her? Certainly their brother spoke to nobody while with the Rushworths. Oh, no, but wait, that was not true – not <em>quite</em> – he had conversed with Mary Crawford in front of herself and Julia. (Could that offer any clues?) But it could not be <em>her</em>, because if they were to be attached, if it were really and truly all over with Edmund and Mrs. Crawford and she was looking instead to his brother for the family's title, it should be long done by now, should it not? Certainly nothing could be more unlikely.</p><p>No.</p><p>Edmund was easy in that regard, he was in no fear of it. A romance with Miss Crawford <em>might</em> account for the mentioned 'shock', but the rest did not add up. Mary was not in Portsmouth, for one thing. And Tom would not write to Edmund hinting of his performing a marriage between his own brother and a former love, for another. He was <em>careless</em>, he was not <em>cruel</em>.</p><p>Mary would also not wear a cross on a ribbon. She would have chains. <em>Most</em> ladies who were out in society would be able to afford a simple chain. And that was an unnerving thought for many, many reasons.</p><p>"Oh, <em>Tom</em>," Edmund had murmured, setting Maria's letter aside, "what<em> have</em> you been playing at?"</p><p>So now there was a new letter, and Edmund fervently hoped it was word of a refusal and his immediate return to Mansfield Park on his own, his spirits humbled but not depleted.</p><p>Indeed, though, it was nothing of the sort.</p><p>The mystery girl had accepted him – of course she had – and he was over the moon. Now he might at long last tell Edmund who she was and bid him to come to Portsmouth at once and marry them straight away.</p><p>
  <em>This letter will reach you before you are to quit Thornton Lacey, I trust?</em>
</p><p>Edmund rolled his eyes and read on.</p><p>The next few paragraphs fulfilled the younger Mr. Bertram's worst fears and <em>then some</em>. He had managed to find their mother's people, impoverished cousins – who, allegedly, lived in complete and utter squalor, and who had to go about stealing pigs from who knew where because they could afford none of their own – and to pick out a wife from these poor relations. And certainly he had done so to upset their father.</p><p><em>Her name is Frances Price, and she is eighteen years of age. We met in a dance hall and conducted our courtship under the eyes of both her family and Yates. Nothing was done improperly. (You may write and ask John for yourself, if you doubt me.) And I am under no delusions regarding her. There has been no trick or mistake. She could be our mother's own child – the resemblance is </em>most remarkable<em> in some lights! You'd, undoubtedly, know who she was just by looking at her. And, besides, now that Fanny has agreed to be my wife, there can be no further reason to keep her a secret from you. You might think of bringing some small token or bauble as a wedding present for her when you come. I should like you both to shake hands, exchange good will, and make friends quickly, just as fair cousins ought. You will find her pious enough to suit all your scruples – she has the virtue of a saint; alas, there's nothing to be done about it, frustrating as it is. Oh, well. I don't mind – who can mind having what is too good for them? – so long as I don't wake one morning to find she's actually got a halo hidden away somewhere. For myself, I am planning on naming one of my new racing horses in her honour – I shall write soon to tell the jockey and the groom how the new beauty in their stables is to be called Francis. He is a very fine horse with good odds, I am assured.</em></p><p>Edmund grimaced most unhappily; for now he would need to travel to Portsmouth to try and talk his brother out of this folly, and he was positively <em>dreading</em> it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Persuasion, Being Convinced Otherwise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Eight:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Persuasion, Being Convinced Otherwise</em>
</p><p>Following her acceptance of Tom Bertram, Fanny's family began to treat her as more of a guest than a resident. They acted, largely, as if she were already Mrs. Bertram and was only returned to them for a visit. Most girls in Fanny's place would have been delighted – <em>Betsey</em>, who'd always been treated better than her elder sisters <em>anyway</em>, and had nothing to lament, should have been quite ecstatic in her place, for she liked very much to feel important and to put on airs and would hardly have known what to do with herself if she'd ever had any <em>real </em>occasion for it, as her sister now had – but Fanny herself was made greatly unhappy by it at first. She was a creature of habit who loathed change, and to feel keenly as if she were not part of the only life she'd known before she'd even left it behind her was not an easy thing to come to terms with.</p><p>Her mother took too much notice of her; her father nodded with dismissive approval when she walked into a room, as if privately concluding she was soon to be one less mouth to feed; John and Richard referred to her as their cousin's affianced in conversation more than they did their sister; Tom and Charles ignored her entirely, as if trying to distance themselves, knowing she'd be gone soon anyway; Betsey asked – on what seemed to be an endless loop – if there would be a cake when Fanny married Tom and if she could be assured of a large piece.</p><p>Only Susan was steadfastly the same as ever towards her, and it was she who reconciled Fanny to the change, reminding her that nobody meant to be unkind; they were merely preparing for when she was a lady and they should not see her and have the use of her every day any longer.</p><p>Poor Susan, though – deep inside, she was more miserable than Fanny. Fanny could look forward to a marriage that would bring her – though it must be through great change – brand new comforts. Susan could look forward only to less body warmth on the mattress shared between sisters on cold nights. She wished she was going to Mansfield Park as well. She'd heard of ladies who took younger sisters with them as companions for their holiday following the wedding, but she could have no hope even of that much in Fanny's case. Tom would have to return to Mansfield – doubtless he'd been away too long already – and Susan had not been invited. No one had spoken of Susan's <em>visiting</em>, let alone her coming along to see Fanny introduced to her new home.</p><p>But she was determined to bear it, and considered it only what was likely. Susan was used to having to give Fanny up – she gave her up entirely to William whenever he was home, because she had no choice, and now she was giving her to Tom Bertram. She was forced to be used to it. And, moreover, it was what was best for Fanny. It was what she'd <em>wanted</em> for her sister the moment she realised Mr. Bertram was sincere in his interest.</p><p>Fortunately, there were nice distractions for both Susan and Fanny while they waited for word of the younger Mr. Bertram's coming to perform the marriage. Tom took them on several more walks, all of which had less errands attached than the previous ones had, and he was given leave to convey them, when the next Assembly Night came around, to the dance hall in an open carriage Mr. Yates had hired. It proved much better than going there on foot, and Fanny was left with more energy for dancing. She looked far more appealing to the Portsmouth boys, who hardly recognised the little figure leaning on Mr. Bertram's arm as he helped her out of the carriage, than she had in all the years before; indeed, if she'd been a very different sort of girl, she would have had a great opportunity to make Tom exceedingly jealous.</p><p>A couple of days after the ball, Tom came by the house carrying a box tied closed with velvet ribbon and presented it to Fanny in front of the family.</p><p>Betsey – loudly asking why she didn't get a big gift-box as well – was kept from sobbing only by Fanny's hastily permitting her to keep the ribbon once it was taken off the box.</p><p>Inside, sandwiched between layers of paper, was a white gown of fine muslin sewn up with glass beads that glittered like fairy-lights when Fanny lifted it out.</p><p>"I thought," Tom explained, clearing his throat as if slightly embarrassed, "you might like to have something new for the wedding ceremony. I don't know much about that sort of thing, clearly, but I recalled Miss Crawford – that's the lady my brother fancied – had a similar dress everybody said was expensive. We took wagers on whose winnings at cards that evening would have been able to cover the cost of it." He pointed at the glass beads. "Hers had those glossy, spotty bits as well – whatever those are meant to be." He paused, then added, "Eh, you know, if it's the wrong size or anything, I'm sure we can have it taken in."</p><p>"It's <em>beautiful</em>," breathed Fanny, who had never seen such a dress before. "Thank you."</p><p>"Oh, don't thank me – you ought to thank <em>Yates</em>," laughed Tom, teasingly. "<em>He's</em> the one who put the idea in my head by waxing on about how dreadfully crummy your dress on Assembly Night was." He shrugged. "I didn't notice anything the matter with it myself."</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>," exclaimed Susan, before anyone could reply to that, "you'll look like a<em> princess</em>!" Her eyes darted to Mrs. Price. "Won't she, Mother?"</p><p>"She'll look well enough for someone who is to marry a Bertram," she replied diplomatically. "Your Aunt Maria had a fine dress made up for her wedding as well."</p><p>"What about <em>shoes</em>?" Betsey piped up, having just finished securing the velvet ribbon in her dark hair. "Fanny hasn't got any shoes to match a dress like that!"</p><p>And Tom, turning his head, blinked down at the small girl.</p><p>Being a man, he had not anticipated such a question. He'd been pleased to have – rightly, it seemed, however against the odds – identified a passible muslin with glossy pieces – no one had told him there would be<em> shoes</em>.</p><hr/><p>Edmund's arrival in Portsmouth had only frustrated him further. Because of being sent in the wrong direction, it took him an hour to locate the inn Tom was staying at, only to be told by Mr. Yates that his brother was not within after all.</p><p>"Oh, depend upon it – he'll be out walking the entire length of the harbour with the Miss Prices," Mr. Yates yawned indolently, having just been roused from a nap. "I would have gone with him, as I've been doing, but I'm fagged out from a late night. And, well, one walk with your cousins becomes very much like another after a time. Further, I think it's terribly likely to rain, don't you?"</p><p>"There are no clouds out today, Mr. Yates," had been Edmund's dry reply before thanking him and departing.</p><p>Tom <em>was</em> at the harbour, and – from the first glance – he seemed to be alone. Perhaps the Miss Prices had gone home? All the better, if they had, he'd thought, approaching and calling out his brother's name.</p><p>Turning with a delighted smile on his face, Tom lifted his top hat and halloed in what – in that moment – struck Edmund as a very grating and exaggerated manner.</p><p>"<em>Edmund</em>!" He was positively <em>beaming</em>, as if it truly did not occur to him that he was in the process of making great trouble for the family. "There you are at last. I am most glad of it! I confess I was worried you'd left Thornton Lacey early and hadn't gotten my last letter – you didn't reply."</p><p>"Well, there are some matters that ought to be addressed<em> in person</em> rather than through a missive," said Edmund. "Would that you had enough decorum and good sense to realise it."</p><p>"Oh, you sound like<em> Father</em>," he laughed. "Lighten up."</p><p>"This girl you wish to marry–"</p><p>"Fanny Price."</p><p>"This <em>girl</em>," he pressed.</p><p>"You know her name, Edmund – use it."</p><p>"Fanny Price."</p><p>"<em>There</em>. Was that so very trying?"</p><p>"<em>Fanny Price</em>," Edmund went on, "is not–"</p><p>"Yes, yes, as you say – but before you finish that sentence," Tom cut in, lifting an arm and gesturing over his shoulder. "I feel obliged to warn you she's standing right behind you."</p><p>Edmund spun halfway, and caught a glimpse of the petite, pale figure standing with someone so alike in looks (though not in countenance) it could only be a sister.</p><p>What had Edmund expected Fanny Price to be like? Confronted with her in the flesh, as she truly was, he was no longer certain. It had been difficult, really, to get an accurate fix on her from Tom's letters. The eyes of love, if not actually blind, are always a bit fuzzy around the edges, as he knew from first-hand experience.</p><p>Tom had said she was pretty and good natured.</p><p><em>All</em> men who believe themselves in love say exactly the same.</p><p>He had mentioned her piety and her amber cross, and very little else.</p><p>Somehow, Edmund thought he might have been vaguely anticipating someone who – while not morally repugnant by any means – had contrived to get Tom Bertram to propose marriage. A poor cousin cleverly – and not, in and of itself, <em>wrongly</em> – calculating her way out of poverty.</p><p>Perhaps it was to do with the way Tom had written that one part in the first letter he'd mentioned her in: 'Alas, she loves me, what else can I do?'</p><p>Instead, though, Edmund was confronted with a sickly young woman peering out at him through guileless light eyes, her smile quavery. Any chasing done here had been all on Tom's part; it was not contrived by this unfortunate innocent.</p><p>The blame here was so uneven as to make him feel very angry with his brother in regards to the deliberateness of it. He had not been entrapped. He had contrived and planned and plotted and played and gambled and jolly well let himself get carried away – as he <em>always</em> did.</p><p>And so he looked back to Tom with an expression of unadulterated disgust. "Tom, you're a <em>fool</em>."</p><p>Tom cleared his throat and ignored that. "Fanny, this currently very disagreeable and dour person is my brother – he's to marry us."</p><p>"Yes," said Fanny, simply, "I recognise him."</p><p>Surprised so completely he forgot to be angry at Tom's obtuseness, Edmund said, "Recognise<em> me</em>?"</p><p>"From Tom's sketches." Fanny blushed and glanced down at her feet.</p><p>"Oh, and this is Susan – your cousin also, and my soon to be sister-in-law," Tom added, waving merrily at Susan.</p><p>Susan bobbed politely. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Edmund Bertram."</p><p>"I believe he prefers<em> Parson Bertram</em> these days," drawled Tom, arching an eyebrow. "Does he not?"</p><p>"Indeed, he does not," grumbled Edmund.</p><p>"So." Tom grinned and clapped his hands together. "How soon can you marry us? Fanny has her wedding-clothes already. I'd like to have the church cleared out on schedule. Might be a bit awkward, you know – somebody praying on their knees in the corner while we're exchanging rings."</p><p>Edmund inhaled sharply, taking a long, deep breath. When he released it, he turned to Fanny and Susan graciously. "Come, we'll walk you home."</p><p>"No, no – absolutely not!" cried Tom, scowling. "We've just got out for the day and it's clearer than it's been since I first came."</p><p>"With all due respect, dearest cousins, my brother and I need to speak alone, so I fear I must beg your indulgence in this matter, despite how it will cut your exercise short on an admittedly agreeable day. Please don't think me unkind for it."</p><p>"Edmund, why are you addressing them? <em>I'm </em>speaking to you," Tom snarled.</p><p>"<em>We</em>," said Edmund, very slowly and with forced coolness, looking askance at his brother, "will talk <em>later</em>."</p><p>"Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Fanny."</p><p>"Indeed, I cannot – and as it is not <em>Fanny</em> I'm cross with, it would be a great unkindness to speak what it is on my mind in her hearing, and in front of her sister no less," Edmund told him. "Now we will begin walking back."</p><p>"You can't just show up here and tell me what to do."</p><p>"Do <em>not</em>," Edmund warned, very coldly, "<em>push</em> it, Tom."</p><p>"D'you imagine, just because you're a clergyman, no one may see or judge except yourself?" hissed Tom, indignant.</p><p>"I will not speak of it now – not in the present company." Edmund spoke through his teeth. "Take the younger Miss Price's arm and we shall be off."</p><p>Tom grew properly angry, as he had never been in Fanny's presence before, for he saw the order exactly as Edmund meant him to – a ready barrier between himself and Fanny Price. His self-righteous younger brother would not even allow him to take the arm of his betrothed for the short walk back to the house, insisting he escort Susan instead.</p><p>"This isn't up for discussion." And Edmund held out his arm in Fanny's direction.</p><p>If Tom expected her not to take it, to show stubborn defiance in his defence, as Edmund suspected – from his falling expression, which he did not watch without swallowing a twinge of sadness – such was not the case. Without the smallest sign of protest – not so much as a squeak or a parted mouth or an indignant look – Fanny automatically obliged and hooked her arm through Edmund's, her manner meek as a lamb and her wide, watery eyes blinking up at him as if she were not entirely convinced he was <em>real</em>.</p><p>Given no other choice in the matter, Tom took Susan by the arm without really looking at her as he did so and began walking.</p><p>When they arrived at the Price household, Edmund apologised for leaving them on the doorstep without a word, promising to come calling on his aunt and all the rest of them tomorrow and to pay his respects.</p><p>It was Susan, not Fanny, whose eyes darted from Edmund to Tom uncertainly.</p><p>Edmund shook his head – if he had anything to say about it, no, Tom would <em>not </em>be accompanying him on his visit tomorrow.</p><p>Poor Tom, though. Furious as Edmund was with him, he also was forced, despite himself, to pity him. Especially as Fanny – stationed in the threshold of the house, fiddling anxiously with her amber cross – did not watch Tom go as they turned to leave and his brother was visibly disappointed by the lack of regard. Downright crestfallen.</p><p><em>Oh, Tom</em>, he thought miserably,<em> I'm </em>not<em> your enemy. And you </em>asked<em> me to come.</em></p><p>Once they'd turned off the narrow street, Tom snapped, as if Edmund had spoken aloud, "She's <em>shy</em> – that's all."</p><p>"I did not say otherwise."</p><p>Then, almost more to himself than to Edmund, "Why does <em>everyone</em> prefer you to me?"</p><p>"That is not true, and – even if it were – it's irrelevant."</p><p>"You're a <em>prig</em>. D'you know that? Why could you not just arrive here and be pleasant and do for me the one favour I asked of you?"</p><p>"I wonder sometimes, Tom, that <em>you</em> are not ashamed to ask <em>me</em> for favours."</p><p>"T'hell does that mean?"</p><p>"You know <em>exactly</em> what it means," said Edmund, unwilling to elaborate further.</p><hr/><p>Seated before the fire in his and Tom's room, Mr. Yates halloed as enthusiastically as Tom initially had, upon seeing both Bertram brothers enter together, until he realised Tom looked cross, and his broad grin faded.</p><p>"What's amiss, chaps?"</p><p>"There's nothing you can say, Edmund," Tom fumed, "which will prevent my marrying Fanny Price. I had hoped for your blessing, but I can live without it."</p><p>"Tom, you <em>complete imbecile</em>." A hand was lifted to Edmund's mouth and he was several angry moments in stony silence before letting it drop and going on. "Do you truly not see the matter is far more grave than my preventing anything? For a start, Father will be <em>furious</em>."</p><p>Tom shrugged. "Then, really, he ought to have done something for Mother's relatives years ago – if I had been acquainted with the Prices before now..." He shrugged again, twice as callously. "Well, who's to say I would not feel differently? He's brought it entirely on his own head, Edmund. I'm amazed you – you who preach of kindness and charity – can defend his neglect."</p><p>Edmund sucked his teeth. "God give me <em>strength </em>– Tom, you speak of neglect, when we both know that you yourself are in far more danger of neglecting Fanny if you marry her than if you do not."</p><p>"I do not understand you."</p><p>"<em>Tom</em>," he said pointedly, "you were given extensive lessons in recitation, piano, and fencing – you cannot act or speak publicly with any clarity, you can <em>barely</em> play, and I'm fairly certain Mr. Yates here could best you in a duel."</p><p>Yates smiled.</p><p>"Don't look so damnably<em> pleased</em>, John, it's not as if it's <em>true </em>– and, <em>Edmund</em>, what has that to do with anything?"</p><p>"You've never attended to a matter thoroughly in your life."</p><p>Tom was stung. "Perhaps not, but Fanny isn't a piano or a sword – she's the woman I wish to marry. Surely that is a different matter entirely. I had no desire to learn anything Father required of me as a boy – no yearning or inclination for it – but I do long to be married."</p><p>"That is true," Mr. Yates chimed in rather too brightly. "He longs for her all day – speaks of almost nothing else. It can be quite bothersome. I think you had best agree to marry them, Edmund, or else we shall never hear the end of it."</p><p>"Oh, <em>please</em>. My privileged brother has never longed for anything in his life," huffed Edmund, "save for more fish at a card table with which to raise the stakes or, perhaps, two to one odds on Clop-clop."</p><p>"<em>Clip-clop</em>," corrected Tom, bitterly. "If you mean to criticise me, at least do so <em>rightly</em>. The horse's name was <em>Clip-clop</em>."</p><p>"Actually, the owner had it changed to Thunder-hooves and put him out to stud after he kicked that unfortunate groom in the nether regions," said Mr. Yates, unhelpfully, rising from his chair and brushing off his breeches. "Most regrettable."</p><p>"Damn fine horse," agreed Tom, offhandedly. "Shame about the groom. I hear he has a <em>fantastic</em> singing voice now, though."</p><p>Edmund rolled his eyes. "I think it would be best, Mr. Yates, if Tom and I could continue this conversation between only ourselves – this is a family matter."</p><p>"Oh, certainly, certainly." Mr. Yates was most amiable. He walked good-humouredly across the room at once, although – rather than quitting it as Edmund might have expected – he hoisted up a screen used for draughts and for when he or Tom was dressing and, dragging it over, placed it between his chair and where Edmund and Tom were standing. "You needed only to <em>ask</em>, my good fellow."</p><p>"I am begging you, as your brother," Edmund pressed, ignoring the screen and likely doing his best to imagine John Yates was not behind it, "use your brain for once and don't marry the poor girl. Say your goodbyes, break off the engagement, and come home to Mansfield Park with me."</p><p>"Do you despise her so much that you'd wish her to be left in this backwater, rather than to have a comfortable home at Mansfield?" exclaimed Tom. "You can see she's not well." And for a moment Tom's eyes glittered with hurt at what he meant to say – meant to <em>admit</em> – next. "She was fond of you at first sight. Before that, even. Why should you hate her? Should not love beget love?"</p><p>"I don't hate Fanny," said Edmund softly. "<em>You</em>, however, I'm not too keen on at the moment. The truth is, I'm <em>frightened</em> for her – for my poor cousin – for you <em>both</em>. You will make a rash choice, believe yourselves happy for a week, and then be miserable for the rest of your lives."</p><p>"This is immaterial, empty words – I cannot give her up."</p><p>"This is dishonourable, Tom." He closed his eyes and winced, shaking his head.</p><p>"<em>Dishonourable</em>?" Tom glared daggers at his brother. "All was done upright, and I proposed <em>marriage</em>, not some shoddy arrangement in which she's a kept mistress in London. It's you who wishes to prevent us from the most honourable union there is."</p><p>"I'm not trying to rob you of happiness," snapped Edmund, raising a hand and pointing emphatically; "I'm trying to help you. You are the eldest son of a baronet – your courtship should not have been a secret one conducted in a place like this, but something that came about in full knowledge of our parents. Your marriage should not be performed by a reluctant clergyman with only the Price family as witnesses. Banns should be posted, the paper should report on your choice. You <em>know</em> there is a way these things are done – you know it perfectly well."</p><p>Tom watched Edmund's outburst with an expression that was, not only lacking in nicety, but leaning towards the downright nasty. He ought to have been concerned the moment his elder brother, who had never gracefully tolerated hearing no from his family in conjunction with something he desired for himself, began to contort his features into such a look. There was malice in it, and there was no mercy. Edmund was the piteous one, the one who feared retribution if he did something unkind – Tom's own conscience, while honest to a fault when it could be prevailed upon in earnest, was a much more volatile thing, one which he knew how make quiet when he wanted it to be.</p><p>"I see," he said in a dangerously level tone. "I see it all now, Edmund – you are right."</p><p>Edmund dared not sigh in relief – he was sure there more to come – the voice was too barbed for that to be all.</p><p>"What was I thinking, proposing marriage to <em>Fanny</em>!" He made a little clicking noise with his mouth and began to pace the length of the screen. "She is most unsuitable. The shame I should bring on our poor, perfect father." The sarcasm seemed to drip from his tongue. "Certainly I must marry someone he knows already, someone our Aunt Norris would approve of as well. Not a poor relation I've imagined myself to care for." His stare was chilling as he bit down onto his lower lip in pretend consideration. "I know exactly the person."</p><p>"What are you talking about?"</p><p>"Mary Crawford."</p><p>The blood drained from Edmund's face. "You are not serious."</p><p>"Indeed, I <em>am</em>!"</p><p>"You don't even fancy her."</p><p>"But she's someone our father would approve, is she not? And she is amiable, is she not?"</p><p>"Miss Crawford would never accept you," but even as he said it, Edmund's doubt was visibly evident.</p><p>"Not accept me?" he laughed darkly. "But I'm exactly what she wants – your living is too lowly for her, which is why she refused you, but as you said I'm the first-born son of a baronet. I'm to inherit Mansfield Park." He cocked his head. "She overlooked me for you, once, but in the end she still wouldn't have you. So. If I take up a letter this moment and have it sent off tomorrow, just how confident <em>are</em> you that your lady-love won't respond to it in my favour, rethinking her former dismissal of me?"</p><p>"I did not believe you could ever be so cruel," murmured Edmund, eyes bloodshot and countenance fallen as if he'd been struck forcefully in the face. "You sorry<em> bastard</em>."</p><p>"We have the same parents, Edmund," he reminded him coyly, examining his well-buffed cuticles.</p><p>"You wouldn't truly marry her."</p><p>"If I can't have the woman of my choosing, one pretty girl is very much like another, is she not? Mary will do. And she's an accomplished musician – I enjoy harp music, though not so much as you do. We should not make each other too unhappy. And it isn't as if she ever accepted you – I wouldn't have stolen her from you. I'm not so harsh in my spite as that. I should only be marrying a free woman." With a little gesture at the screen, he added, "Indeed, she's the very sort of woman even Yates has anticipated my loving someday. Small, dark, and bright – just like Amelia."</p><p>"You engage and dismiss her in one breath."</p><p>"Ah. Can't be helped. I like to be efficient."</p><p>"May God forgive you, Tom."</p><p>He sighed dramatically, his cocky smile pulled <em>tight</em>. "Of course, given it seems to bother you so greatly, it occurs to me there is a ready solution.</p><p>"If I married Fanny – if we were happily wed before quitting this place – I'd never so much as have reason to <em>wink</em> at your precious Mary Crawford, would I?"</p><p>"I can see" – Edmund gulped down rage and fear and fury and tried to breath normally – "appealing to you is useless. I'm not to going to find your better nature in this state of affairs. You are too used to having your own way, too desperate. I shall have to pray our cousin has more sense than you and can be reasoned with."</p><p>"You can't–"</p><p>"It isn't a matter of what I can't do," and he stepped around the screen. "It is a matter of what needs to be done."</p><p>"I'm <em>going</em> to marry her, Edmund, whether you approve or not." The die, so far as he was concerned, had already been cast.</p><p>Edmund stopped at the door, fists clenched. "Are you speaking of Mary Crawford or Fanny Price?"</p><p>"Well," he said darkly, reaching for a decanter on a nearby night-stand, "that's up to<em> you</em>, isn't it?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Further Persuasions, From All Parties</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Nine:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Further Persuasions, From All Parties</em>
</p><p>Imagine you are a goose. A goose who has lived, largely, only with ducks and turkeys your entire life. Imagine you have seen – probably – only one other goose in all the years of being alive. Then, one day, you are confronted by another goose, just like yourself, and you realise that – in a single glance – you know each other at once.</p><p>Imagine you are dumbfounded, struck at the sight of this other goose, longing for its acceptance simply because you are both the same.</p><p>Can you imagine it?</p><p>If you can, you will have a good idea of what Fanny Price felt when she first saw Edmund Bertram in the flesh.</p><p>Poor Fanny.</p><p>Apart from William, she had never encountered another person whose soul seemed to be made of the same stuff as her own. She might have had her suspicions from seeing Tom's drawing, but it is very different in person. It was not that it didn't distress her, Edmund clearly angry with his brother and not desiring him to marry her, but to argue with him then – to leave him with the view that she was wilful and intrusive – she could not have endured. Perhaps, if she had thought – even for a moment – Tom truly suspected her of liking Edmund better than himself, she might have been more reassuring. Alas, she was not like Susan when it came to such things, despite being older, and so could not see it.</p><p>But, honestly, the thought never crossed her mind. The danger for that was quite beyond either of them. Had she met Edmund <em>first</em>, before spending much time alone with Tom, she'd have no doubt been lost to Tom forever, her heart given up from the very beginning, but with the reverse having occurred, her heart claimed by the merry brother rather than the serious one, there was no chance – beyond their obvious spiritual connection – of her feeling more than a platonic infatuation for Edmund as far as earthly affections went.</p><p>The strength of this infatuation probably had something to do with Fanny being the only member of the Price household who did not react coldly when Edmund came to call on them.</p><p>Her father had no respect for a parson – he thought clergymen rather feeble, pathetic things. "I shan't stir from my seat for the likes of 'im!" Mr. Price had hacked out bitterly, and very much within Edmund's mortified hearing. "You can't <em>make</em> me, Frances! Not for that snivelling, pasty-faced parson!"</p><p>Mrs. Price might have loved another nephew, but she was not inclined to feel grateful for the arrival of one who – by all accounts – wished to prevent the marriage of her sickly eldest child, a burden which needed to be lifted from all their weary shoulders, when Fanny's betrothed was an <em>heir</em>, and when there had been such fuss and bother about getting her to agree in the first place.</p><p>She could be no more than polite to him – a brief kiss on the cheek and a half-hearted offer of tea was about the most she had to give.</p><p>The boys did not think he would play with them as Tom had, and so rejected him outright; he was far too sombre and grave for their liking. He seemed as much a schoolmaster in their eyes as a parson. Betsey could tell he had no presents for her concealed about his person, so she avoided him as well. For once, Susan agreed with their mother, and she was as set on snubbing Edmund as she'd once been on snubbing Tom. She did her best to harden her heart to the fact that Fanny's disappointment in her coldness to Edmund was very little concealed, but she refused to cry over it as she had cried over Fanny's reproaching her for Tom's sake. Her elder sister could say what she <em>liked</em> about him being a parson and deserving respect! Anyone who could arrive in so ill a temper as he had, its quietness notwithstanding, with a mind to readily shorten their pleasure walk so that he might scold his brother, <em>deserved</em> to be cut dead, so far as Susan was concerned.</p><p>This all distressed Fanny beyond even what little she managed to express. For, despite what he was obviously trying to do and the pain and great embarrassment it would cause her if he succeeded, she loved him as a brother already. So her relief was great when – even as they spoke their agreement with ice in their stares – her parents concluded it would be appropriate enough for Edmund to walk with Fanny down to the dockyard alone. He was a clergyman as well as a cousin, and she was betrothed to his brother – no one sensible could think it improper or accuse Fanny of being indecent.</p><p>They walked the length of the narrow street together in amiable silence, before Edmund finally brought himself to speak.</p><p>"I imagine you must think very badly of me."</p><p>Fanny's mouth parted in surprise. "Indeed <em>not</em>, cousin."</p><p>"Tom was right, then, about your good nature, at least."</p><p>Her smile was brittle, but it was kindly meant.</p><p>"You've known Tom only for a short while, Miss Price–"</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>, please."</p><p>"Yes – it is foolish of me to try and be formal now. <em>Fanny</em>. Yes." He cleared his throat. "I have something of a delicate question for you, which I hope you will not be offended by. Is your willingness to marry my brother influenced in any way by your..." He glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the house they'd left. "Your...lack of financial stability...?"</p><p>She shook her head.</p><p>"I have a comfortable living, but it is nothing excessive – I cannot give you even perhaps what others – let us not be disrespectful and put names to it – ought to. However, if you will agree to forget Tom, I can see to it that charity is dispensed to your family through the church. You would not be wealthy, but you would not be desolate. You should have money to buy...that is..." – he coloured brightly about the face – "...pigs..."</p><p><em>Why</em>, Fanny wondered, bemused, <em>does he suppose us to be in need of pigs?</em></p><p>"You think me too lowly for your brother to marry," she said, after a moment.</p><p>"I think the match ill-suited, yes, but not for the reason of your position in life – it is <em>his</em> that concerns me. In you, Fanny, whatever the world might think, it is becoming quite obvious to me Tom could not have picked a better woman – but <em>you</em>, poor creature, could hardly have chosen a less agreeable man for yourself."</p><p>They were coming within sight of the water now, and Edmund looked out with solemnity at the horizon.</p><p>"Do you think so little of your own brother?"</p><p>"I know he can be charming – I can only imagine the promises he has made to you," sighed Edmund, "and you mustn't think I myself do not have love for him – he is my brother. But you cannot be, in so short a while, familiar with his true nature. Here – happy and believing himself in love – he may be mannerly and amiable to you. At home he is different. Perhaps because he quarrels too much with our father and too little with Mother and our Aunt Norris. The fact of the matter is, Fanny, he is a <em>tyrant</em>."</p><p>"Well, I shan't let him tyrannise me," said she, with a warmer smile this time.</p><p>"You'll give way, in time," Edmund said, and he sounded very sorrowful in regards to it; "it's plain you're too kind to quarrel with anyone."</p><p>With a twinkle in her eye, Fanny chuckled, "Your brother should not rely on it, cousin."</p><p>"Do you imagine he will make you happy for always?"</p><p>"I'm not so silly as to imagine any such thing," she told him, a little out of breath. "But..." She paused, exhaling heavily and slowing down. "But I imagine I should be more unhappy without him than with him after all."</p><p>"Given time, he will disappoint you in all ways but one."</p><p>"In what do you count him steadfast?" She couldn't help being curious. What sole part of his brother did Edmund's dissatisfaction not extend to?</p><p>"He will never put another woman in your place, not if he's allowed to marry you – Tom will never take a mistress. I would like to think it piety or loyalty, but it may as easily be laziness."</p><p>"This much I suspected unaided," Fanny admitted. "If I thought him a philander, nothing should have induced me – however fond of him I may be – to accept him. This is nothing so horrid as a man who sports with a woman's affections and then discards them."</p><p>"I agree with you," Edmund said, nodding. "There are few punishments such men do not deserve. And I should be very sorry if my own brother was that sort of man."</p><p>"<em>But</em>?" pressed Fanny, perceiving he meant to say more, even at this.</p><p>"But he <em>will</em> neglect you – for a short time, you will have all his attention and love, and then, forever after, once that time is ended, you'll find him returned to his old habits." Edmund stopped walking, observing that Fanny was hobbling somewhat. "He will always put his gambling and horses and holidays and his desire to have distance from our father after a spat ahead of your needs. I <em>say</em>, Fanny, have you got a stone in your shoe? Do you need to sit?"</p><p>"I'm all right – I believe I have only walked another hole through my left shoe." She lifted her heel and hopped, struggling to readjust it.</p><p>"<em>Another</em>?" Edmund's brow lifted. "Had you holes in your shoes already?"</p><p>"Yes," said she, simply.</p><p>He grimaced in sympathy.</p><p>"He does not strike me as so tyrannical as you describe him," Fanny remarked, slowly beginning to walk again.</p><p>Edmund did not follow the line of conversation immediately. "I beg your pardon?"</p><p>"Tom."</p><p>"Oh, he is a <em>benevolent</em> dictator when he's in a good mood – on that much you can depend," Edmund explained. "He even fancies himself lowly from time to time, and will graciously give acquiescence in something trivial so long as it is not a real loss to himself. If there was some treat my sisters quarrelled over as children and for whatever reason it was given to him, it would eventually find its way into their hands – and he believes such behaviour to be the epitome of having a sacrificing spirit. Thinks himself long-suffering for doing something to quiet them."</p><p>She could not deny there was something in what Edmund said – she had seen his behaviour to Betsey, after all – excessive giving and vaguely coddling in manner. Only she had thought it more a virtue than otherwise until now.</p><p>"But," she concluded, slowly, "you do not see that as being real gallantry on his part?"</p><p>"No one, Fanny, who grew up in the same house with him and has ever seen him throw one of his ungodly tantrums could suppose it genuine," sighed Edmund, shaking his head dismally. "He's too used to having his own way. He was praised too much over small matters, and perhaps – regrettably – never enough over his more honest endeavours."</p><p>"That was not entirely his own fault, then," Fanny decided. "He might be of a different character if he'd been told he must be the lowest and the last rather than that he was already higher above the salt than his nearest peers."</p><p>"I hope, dearest cousin" – he spoke earnestly but not without a touch of sternness – "you don't hold to the belief that a woman will be able to change a man after she has married him? I do not say it doesn't occur<em> sometimes</em>, but in most cases – and I believe especially in <em>Tom's</em> – well..."</p><p>"Indeed not," she assured him. "No – I knew I should have to take him as he was – it was – that is – I couldn't have..." She was starting to stammer. She cleared her throat. "<em>Hem</em>. Excuse me." Then, "That is why I took a while in making up my mind to begin with."</p><p>"Will you remake it now? For your own good?"</p><p>To disappoint Edmund, to even slightly lessen his fine opinion of her, would break her heart, yet she couldn't help it – she shook her head. <em>No.</em> No, she would not – <em>could</em> not – give Tom Bertram up. Not even for Edmund. Not even for<em> William</em>, if he was here and should ask it of her.</p><p>"I know how I will suffer." She sucked in her lips and blinked back tears. "But I made up my mind – I'm never going to give him up."</p><p>Fanny closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The time might very well come when Tom would lose interest and neglect her – Edmund must know his brother's nature better than she could – but she would simply have to enjoy everything in the meantime; she'd quietly bask in what love he could give her until then.</p><p>"You cannot be unaware of his drinking?" Edmund asked next, his tone uncertain. "I don't believe he would have succeeded in keeping his most obvious vice from <em>you</em> – you see too much for that, Fanny."</p><p>"Indeed, cousin, I <em>was</em> aware of it," she confessed, wringing her hands. "I've been quiet about it, but I am not blind."</p><p>"And it does not distress you?"</p><p>"It did..." She had more tears to blink away at this. "And it has... But it does not frighten me unduly. Not any more."</p><p>Edmund could not bring himself to ask if her father's manner – which was not a sober one if he judged aright – had anything to do with her early apprehension. Along with not wishing to distress her further, he could not disrespect an uncle so. Not even such a one as Mr. Price. He might be dirty and gross – and, far worse in Edmund's eyes, he had not put a stop to an ill-conceived romance budding largely under his own roof, plainly more concerned with discarding his excess of children speedily so that he might keep drinking uninterrupted rather than protecting any of them – but he was nonetheless Fanny's father.</p><p>So, unable to breach the subject further, Edmund moved on to his next concern. "And apart from Tom himself, dear Fanny, have you <em>any</em> notion of the sort of persons who await you at Mansfield Park should you marry into the family?"</p><p>She was uncertain how to answer.</p><p>"My mother will give you no grief, so long as you do not bother her dog – she dotes on that blasted pug, you see. If you give the bad-tempered thing a wide berth, I do believe she would accept you quickly enough – that is, as long as no one advised her against it. She has never been strong of mind." Edmund put his hands behind his back and his face darkened slightly. "My father and Aunt Norris, I fear... Well, you should know my father and Tom tend to clash. At times it can get...<em>uncivil</em>... Tom has been kept from becoming too heated and showing his true face to our father only by a veneer of respect and a sort of general idea that, most of the time... You see, generally, despite how harsh he can sometimes be, Father has got the right of things and the quarrel is started by some thoughtless mistake of Tom's. In this matter – his courtship with you – Tom thinks himself faultless and may goad our father into an outburst. This will prevent Father from realising one very ironic fact – despite everything, regardless of the low, shady manner in which Tom has gone about sneaking you into the family circle – you seem to be exactly the sort of daughter he wants. You could so easily be dearer to him than Maria or Julia – for he could know your mind as he never knew theirs – but will he see that?"</p><p>Fanny's cheeks flushed a brilliant red.</p><p>"Nay, cousin, pray do not blush – I do not flatter," said Edmund, quite grave. "No, I don't flatter you – I <em>warn </em>you. You're a good girl, but he may well be blind to your goodness for a long time due to his anger at Tom. I would not wish you to endure such unjust fury directed at your presence."</p><p>"As long as he can forgive us in time," Fanny decided, her voice warbling a bit, "I imagine it will be all right – though I'm sorry if our marriage wounds him."</p><p>"Ah, but it does not end there – our Aunt Norris has long had it in her head <em>she'd</em> be the one to find Tom a wife. Especially after she succeeded with Maria. She has had Julia's unattached state to divert her and has doubtless convinced herself Tom is only fussy so far as is his right as the heir to Mansfield, but when she hears he's had an underhand marriage to someone she's never met?" He shuddered. "Let alone her own sister's child...?"</p><p>"I'm not going to be the most welcome thing in her life, then," concluded Fanny with a grim little nod.</p><p>"I do not know how to say what I must say next."</p><p>"<em>Please</em>" – Fanny unclasped her hands and touched his arm – "take your time. We needn't hurry."</p><p>"Tom won't protect you from her, Fanny," he said at last, the words bursting from him. "Aunt Norris may not be his favourite person – I have seen him running in and out of rooms to avoid her on several occasions, and I cannot blame him for it, even as I find his manners lacking – but she flatters him and she has lavished on him the affection our parents did not always feel ready to bestow unprompted."</p><p>"I–"</p><p>"She won't be intentionally cruel, I cannot think of it of her – but she will be harsher than our parents, her tongue less restrained, more barbed, and she will wound you in Tom's presence as readily as out of it, and there is a good chance he will not say a word in your defence."</p><p>"Yet<em> still</em>," was all Fanny could manage to get out.</p><p>"You are firmly resolved to accept him," he sighed. "Would that I could accuse you of being senseless, I might ease my own conscience, say it's on your own heads, but you have not even given me that much."</p><p>"I'm <em>sorry</em>."</p><p>"Don't apologise – I'm not cross with you, and I do not <em>blame</em> you for my brother's folly." He patted her hand and took her arm, tucking it under his own. "Yes, now, if we've said nearly all, let us start back. Goodness knows your shoes may not hold together long enough for us to reach your front door."</p><p>In sight of the house, Edmund stopped again and, releasing his hold on Fanny, took something from his pocket. "I had hoped this would merely be a gift between friends – between cousins – and now, I fear, if I can do nothing to stop it, though I have not yet given up all hope, it must be a wedding present. Hold out your hand."</p><p>Fanny held out her hand as he asked, and he dropped into it something that <em>chink</em>ed with a merry tinkle as it fell onto her palm. A simple necklace chain.</p><p>"It's for your cross." He gently closed her fingers over it. "You're wont to lose it someday without a good chain; a ribbon is not very secure."</p><p>She was overcome by this gesture, her eyes overflowing with gratitude and tears which could no longer be held back. That someone she desired the good opinion of and cared for, inexplicably, almost so well as she did William, should give her such a gift, should understand her so...!</p><p>"Do not cry – it's a trifle."</p><p>"But it is..." She choked off. "How can I thank you? It was too good of you to think of me – given...oh...given<em> everything</em>... Such kindness is beyond–"</p><p>"For goodness sake, if that's all you have to say" – but he was smiling – "I <em>do</em> need to be getting back to the inn, you realise."</p><p>Fanny kissed his cheek. "<em>Thank you</em>."</p><p>"If you need me, Fanny, you know where to find me." He turned to go and, looking over his shoulder, he added, very sadly, "I regret how much I must have frightened you, with all I've said, but I wouldn't wish what you've chosen on my worst enemy." His eyes shone with pity. "If the situation had been different... If only you'd change your mind! Tom will never accept a no from me – or from anyone else in the family – but I think he would have coped if it had come from <em>you</em>."</p><p>"I thank you, cousin – <em>truly</em>." But she would say nothing further – she would give him no hope of her having been persuaded.</p><hr/><p>Edmund had almost left the narrow street behind him, about to turn in the general direction of the inn, when he heard a voice behind him.</p><p>"Don't!"</p><p>He stopped, turned, and saw Susan Price standing there. The sun was setting now and it made her look blurry about the edges. She had no bonnet on. Her fair hair was limp, half up and half down and straggly. She appeared, also, out of breath, as though she'd been running as quickly as she was able in order to catch up to him.</p><p>"I beg your pardon?"</p><p>"Don't split them up," said Susan, taking a bold step towards him. "I know you've been trying to. Fanny was crying just now, when you left her back at the house."</p><p>"Poor Fanny has reason to cry – she's made a fatal decision."</p><p>"She <em>loves</em> him," cried Susan, agitated. "And he'll take her away from this place! He'll look after her!"</p><p>"Tom can't even look after <em>himself</em>."</p><p>"D'you think I've suffered knowing we'll lose her, that she's to go away – away to <em>Mansfield</em> – and become Mrs. Bertram, only for you to...to..." Susan's chin trembled. "Who is going to marry her if you make Tom jilt her now? Your brother can find someone else, but what about <em>her</em>?"</p><p>"Fanny has the loveliest disposition, and I think any man who could manage to quarrel often with her would be beyond the reach of any sermon I could ever give," said Edmund, in a voice so sincere it probably was the only thing which prevented Susan from despising him wholly in that moment. "She should have no trouble finding an agreeable husband if she can be made to give Tom up."</p><p>"A disposition is not a <em>dowry</em>!" Susan snapped, kicking a loose stone in the road. "You don't live here, so you don't <em>get</em> it – she's ill and poor and I'm <em>telling</em> you no one in Portsmouth will have her."</p><p>"Does Fanny know you're here?" Edmund asked, peering over Susan's shoulder, glancing down the narrow (now rather shadowed) street.</p><p>"No." Her expression grew wretched. "She'd only think I was being rude to you – it'd make her even more cross than she is already."</p><p>"If she's cross with you, it cannot be without some right – you should go home."</p><p>"One of my sisters is already dead, sir," said Susan, gulping hard. "Mary is gone. She was so small when she died, taller than Betsey, but much thinner. She left me a silver knife. It's all I have of left of her.</p><p>"If I'm awful to you, it's only because I don't want to see <em>Fanny</em> gone as well. I would lose her willingly, a hundred times over, to a better life – watch her leave this place looking like a princess who's never known any of us – than see her suffer and weaken and fall sick over a broken heart."</p><p>Edmund was pale, stricken with pity and fear of his own, deeply pained by this cousin's obvious misery. "Do you think it very likely?"</p><p>"Why else would I run after you and scold you in the middle of the street?" She tossed her hands up in frustration. "You can't think I <em>like</em> it! That I want to make a<em> hobby</em> of chasing down parsons and making a spectacle of myself! I'd rather never speak to you, thinking of you as I do, than...than..." she began to sputter. "Than to..."</p><p>He took a step nearer to her, taking one of her violently shaking hands in his own. "Susan, I confess I don't <em>know</em>... I came here thinking... That is... I still feel the marriage can never be a happy one, and I can only imagine how my family will react. But I have no wish to cause your sister's suffering."</p><p>"<em>Good</em>," she said, pulling away and stepping back, though she kept her eyes on his face unrelentingly. "<em>Don't</em>, then. Just don't do it. Don't, and all can be well."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Conditions, Accepting Them For What They Are</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Ten:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Conditions, Accepting Them For What They Are</em>
</p><p>And what do you think <em>Tom</em> was doing, meanwhile?</p><p>He was, by the light of three newly-lit candles, attempting to write what he thought a very fine-sounding letter to Miss Crawford, which he meant to wave under his brother's nose upon his return to the inn.</p><p>His eyes unfocused and glassy, he signed what he – finally – deemed an acceptable letter with a sloppy flourish, blotted it, then passed it to Mr. Yates. "What do you think, John?"</p><p>"You don't sound particularly enamoured of Miss Crawford," remarked Mr. Yates, dropping into his chair and letting his eyes lazily scan the contents of the letter. "Jolly good note otherwise. <em>Crisp</em>. Packs something of a <em>punch</em>, what."</p><p>Tom let his head loll backwards as he rolled his eyes. "This is simply a <em>precaution </em>– God knows what nonsense Edmund has been saying to my poor Fanny this past hour. It's the only leverage I <em>have</em> with my brother at the moment – should bloody well teach him not to try and govern everybody else."</p><p>Mr. Yates tsked and let the hand which held Tom's letter to Mary Crawford go slack at the wrist as he stared off into the middle distance. "One supposes it all might have turned out differently."</p><p>After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Tom rose from his seat and walked over to where Mr. Yates was, putting a hand on the back of his companion's chair, leaning forward and staring out into the same direction blankly. He blinked, finding little enough change. "What the hell are we looking at?"</p><p>Mr. Yates' hand snapped back to life, holding the letter properly and handing it backwards to Tom, who took it irritably. "It<em> might</em> have turned out differently, but it didn't."</p><p>The door opened and Edmund walked in, his heavy, dragging steps weary and dejected.</p><p>"Ah, <em>Edmund</em>," simpered Tom, waving the letter about. "What excellent timing you have – I've only just completed my letter asking Miss Crawford for her hand."</p><p>His brother gave him a side-eye, but walked, first, to the desk and motioned down at a nearly empty decanter. "Tom, that was almost <em>full</em> when I left –<em> tell</em> me Mr. Yates at least helped you finish that."</p><p>"I'm afraid, my fine fellow, <em>I </em>haven't had a single drop," said Yates, with grating merriment.</p><p>All around the desk and awkwardly-angled chair were crumpled up paper and discarded pens with broken tips. There were also signs of ink having been spilled and improperly cleaned up – if an attempt had even been made at all.</p><p>"<em>So</em>," groaned Edmund, rubbing his temples, "you've been sitting here, sullen, curtains drawn, drinking and composing letters all afternoon?"</p><p>"What's it to you if I <em>have</em>?" Tom held out his hand and flapped the letter impatiently. "<em>Now</em>. Are you going to read the damn thing or not?"</p><p>Edmund took it from him. "Oh,<em> that's</em> romantic, Tom," he said sarcastically, looking it over with pursed lips and an angry furrow between his eyebrows. "You're asking for someone's hand in marriage – not ordering a roast pheasant."</p><p>"And yet I'm still fairly confident she'd accept," taunted Tom, his expression rather nasty.</p><p>Edmund's fingers tightened around the left-hand corner of the letter, wrinkling it slightly. "I wonder what you'd say if Fanny Price were to see this?"</p><p>Tom blanched. "<em>What</em>?"</p><p>"I have the letter in my hand now, don't I?" Edmund said in a monotone from which no emotion could be derived. "I could show it to whoever I pleased, could I not?"</p><p>"I <em>say</em>, Bertram, that's hardly sporting!" put in Yates, gone rather pale himself.</p><p>Tom looked <em>broken</em> – as if someone had just pulled not merely the rug out from under him but the entire <em>world</em>, as if he was left standing upon nothing, and was – truly – not even certain he <em>was</em> standing any longer.</p><p>The thought of Fanny, dearest Fanny, reading such a missive! Passionless and coldly clinical it might be, but it still – seemingly – professed his wish to marry somebody else. Tom's ignorance regarding the feelings of women did not extend so far as to not be aware of the sort of wound which might be inflicted. He'd lose her, the instant her eyes landed on the page, perhaps forever. He ardently hated himself for writing it, for ever thinking of writing it.</p><p>"Even if I told her the story behind this, sparing no detail, misrepresenting nothing at all," said Edmund, evenly, "you cannot imagine she would think kindly of..." He held up the hateful letter pointedly. "Would you?"</p><p>"Edmund, if you presume to show her that letter I will <em>never</em> forgive you," snarled Tom, a little colour returning to his miserable face. "D'you understand? Even if it takes years, even if openly despising a clergyman condemns me to Hell itself, I will find a way to make you pay for this."</p><p>"Tom – <em>look</em> at me."</p><p>He'd been deliberately avoiding eye-contact – it made it easier to <em>hate</em> – and now – heart pounding, <em>racing</em> – he forced himself to look his brother full-on in the face. What he saw there, at last, gave Tom a twinge of relief.</p><p>"You <em>wouldn't</em>," he breathed, seeing his brother's eyes. "You'd <em>never</em>..."</p><p>"That's right" – Edmund tossed the letter into the fireplace and watched it begin to burn up instantly – "<em>I</em> would never."</p><p>And Tom, never so unspeakably glad in his life to see something transformed to ash, was overcome with shame. Edmund wouldn't have shown that letter to Fanny. Edmund simply didn't have that sort of spite in him, not in one single bone in his body, and he clearly cared too much for both parties involved. While he himself, reckless elder brother, had been perfectly willing to go through with his own threat – he'd been willing to propose marriage to Mary Crawford just to prove a point, in hopes of getting his own way through blackmail.</p><p>"<em>Thank you</em>," he rasped out.</p><p>"Now, let us hear no more of this nonsense about you offering your hand to Miss Crawford," said Edmund, getting – quite unexpectedly – the final word on the matter. "We're not children any more, Tom, let us be civil."</p><p>Tom nodded, dropping his gaze.</p><p>"I've spoken to Fanny – she refuses to give you up."</p><p>Tom's head jerked back up; he was alight with joy. He brought his hands to his face and let out a small groan of relief.</p><p>"Now that I have your attention, <em>listen</em>. I still believe this marriage to be ill-conceived," Edmund told him, "my most fervent wish being that she will yet change her mind, but – against my better judgement – I'll perform the ceremony, join the pair of you in wedded bliss,<em> if</em> you agree to my conditions."</p><p>"And<em> they</em> are?" Tom asked, hardly daring to believe this happy change in fortune.</p><p>"Firstly, as I know it's useless to try and convince you to write to our father <em>prior</em> to your marrying Fanny Price, I will require you give me your <em>word</em> that – as soon as you have gotten your way, as soon as you're married – you will write him and beg his pardon."</p><p>"Oh, do come<em> on</em>," groaned Tom.</p><p>"I <em>mean</em> it," Edmund insisted. "I won't have you turning up at Mansfield with her unannounced, thinking it some sort of grand joke. Give our father a something like a warning, allow him time – however short – to adjust to the idea. If not your own sake, then for Fanny's."</p><p>"And what else?"</p><p>"You will not – on some sort of mad whim – take Fanny from Portsmouth and go gallivanting about in London under the guise of a wedding holiday – I highly doubt Fanny's health could endure the pace of your London lifestyle, and you've been away from home long enough."</p><p>"What of Bath, then?" Tom suggested. "I would think Fanny might rather <em>enjoy</em> Bath."</p><p>"In the future, perhaps, if the proper arrangements were made, but not now." Edmund was unmoved. "I'm also going to write to Father, though I will say nothing of your marriage – I'm going to ask only that – if it is quite convenient – he send his own carriage to convey us to Mansfield in two week's time."</p><p>"That's not enough <em>time</em>, Edmund – a fortnight is <em>nothing</em>."</p><p>"You and Fanny will have to make the most of it – and you'll do so<em> here</em>, in Portsmouth." He sighed as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and – rather than ridding himself of it – was shifting it so he could bear it longer, for to drop it would only end all. His own suffering might be eased, but that of others would only increase. It was heavy, so <em>heavy</em>... "You can't hide from your problems forever."</p><p>"Is that all?"</p><p>He shook his head. "One last thing. We are to take Fanny's sister, Susan, with us to Mansfield."</p><p>"No. An interesting idea, certainly, but I'm afraid it's not possible." Tom folded his arms across his chest. "Our family will already–"</p><p>Edmund held up a hand. "If there's any objection," he insisted, "we'll say she's a companion for Mother – for when she sits alone in the evening and our father happens to be away. No one can have anything to say against <em>that</em>."</p><p>"But what is your real reason for wanting her there?" inquired Tom, wholly mystified.</p><p>"My <em>real reason</em>, Tom, is fear that when you tire of quarrelling with Father – when the racing season starts up again – you are likely to abandon Fanny in Mansfield Park, where she will have no friends, no allies. I can't be there to look after her in your stead, not if I'm returned to Thornton Lacey, but having her sister in residence may ease the pain of your inevitable neglect. The Prices, I think, will be glad enough to allow it – once the thing has been suggested."</p><p>"Very well," Tom said at last. "I agree – to all of it. I give you my word."</p><p>"This place is a <em>mess</em>," Edmund declared, answering by way of not answering as he crouched to pick up the discarded papers Tom had left scattered about his chair. "We should burn these as well." And he tossed them into the fire, and – watching the hateful scraps turn to ash before his bloodshot eyes – Tom felt so light he could <em>float</em>.</p><p>Edmund's elbow happened to bump something off the edge of the desk as he rose. It was Tom's sketchbook, and it fell open on the floor.</p><p>The younger brother was astonished, getting to it before he could be prevented and seeing rather fine work. "Good lord, is that supposed to be <em>me</em>? Why, here is Julia and Maria, too!" He had seen, a handful of times, unfinished landscapes of Tom's – and while they were, mostly, just what a gentleman's drawings ought to be, they'd never stood out as anything special. He'd never suspected his brother of having an eye for detail, much less the constancy to finish what he started. To be sure, they were small, simple pieces, but they were also remarkable, all very like their subjects. "I had no idea you'd gotten so accomplished in your likenesses."</p><p>"<em>See</em>?" said Tom, with some lingering hostility. "You don't know everything about me."</p><p>Turning a few pages, Edmund came across the drawing of Fanny. It was perfect, apart from a smudge under her cross that might have come from a mere slip of the hand rather than signify any sort of incompleteness. So Tom – so much as he <em>could</em> – really did love her, then. There was a raw affection in the work – a <em>passion</em> – not present in the little drawings of himself and their sisters.</p><p>With a sad shake of his head, Edmund closed the sketchbook and set it down on the desk again. "Would that you'd never let your eye linger on her in the first place – you'll only break both your hearts."</p><hr/><p>The next time Tom, Edmund, or Mr. Yates saw any of the Prices was at church on Sunday morning.</p><p>Despite Tom being slightly hungover and his grumpily muttering that he had better things to do than "hear that hoarse backwater preacher go off about the merits of sobriety," Edmund had dragged his brother out to hear the sermon and, in the end, Tom had let him do it willingly enough because he thought he might see their cousins – including Fanny – and have a moment to speak with them before they slid noisily into their usual pew.</p><p>Mr. Yates, trailing along for no particular reason, had very much the air of one who hasn't been to church in so long that he's forgotten the proper way and routine of it and is preoccupied with trying to recall the motions to avoid looking idiotic.</p><p>"My religious tutors," he chuckled breathlessly, trotting alongside, "would be most disappointed in me. I fear I've forgotten..."</p><p>Neither Bertram brother acknowledged John Yates' statement, nor followed his stream of consciousness as it continued. They reacted no more to his chatter than they would have to a bird singing off-key in the nearby trees.</p><p>The Prices were there – they were too loud to miss – but Fanny was not with them, much to Tom's disappointment.</p><p>"Fanny had one of her headaches last night and was dizzy today," Susan explained, reaching out to prevent Betsey from pirouetting on the church steps in order to show off her best dress. "She's at home. I'll tell her you – Betsey, <em>stop</em>! We're at <em>church</em>!"</p><p>"I <em>say</em>," remarked Mr. Yates, looking around. "Where's Tom gone?"</p><p>Susan let go of Betsey – at her mother's biased insistence – and glanced at where Tom had been standing a moment ago. Indeed, Mr. Yates was not mistaken; his companion had fled.</p><p>"Oh, <em>Tom</em>," groaned Edmund.</p><hr/><p>Tom was, of course, fast-walking down the narrow street and heading straight for the Prices' house. He wished he'd had time to stop and buy some more raspberries for her, but it was Sunday and he hadn't wanted anything to slow him down. He hadn't seen Fanny since their last walk, since Edmund's less than agreeable arrival, and he was loath to miss out on the opportunity which had just presented itself.</p><p>He didn't bother knocking – he thought it couldn't be wrong to simply let himself in. Fanny knew who he was, of course, and so did Rebecca (who he had also not seen at church and suspected had remained to look after her), so he wasn't terribly likely, he reasoned, to be taken up for a burglar.</p><p>Not that the Prices had anything worth stealing.</p><p>It was eerily quiet inside. The place was quite transformed without the noise of the children slamming doors and the bustle and the quarrelling and Mr. Price's phlegm-laden coughs. He thought he heard a clock tick softly as he stepped over the threshold. Tom was amazed – he hadn't realised, prior to this, the family even <em>owned</em> a functioning clock; they didn't seem the sort to remember to wind it up again when it stopped working.</p><p>He found Fanny at the table, sitting with the uncleared breakfast things spread out in front of her, looking tired and slack-faced. Her eyes were half-closed and she obviously had not seen him come in, so he crept up behind her and put his hands over her eyes.</p><p>She inhaled sharply in surprise, as if preparing to scream, just as he merrily called out, "Fanny, who's there?" and allowed his hands to drop to her shoulders.</p><p>A strangled yelp replaced the scream she'd been building up to, as she gasped out, "<em>Tom</em>?"</p><p>Grinning, he let go of her, took off his top hat, and showed himself. "Hello, Fanny – having a good morning, are you?"</p><p>"But..." she stammered. "What are you doing here?"</p><p>"Well, I heard you weren't at church, thought I'd stop in and surprise you." He was glad, though he didn't say so, to see she was out of bed – it might have been a bit more unseemly if she'd been in her room, especially as he hadn't gotten permission for this visit from either of her parents. "Are you feeling any better?"</p><p>Fanny smiled at him shakily. "You shouldn't be here – I'm alone."</p><p>"What, no Rebecca, then?" He lifted an eyebrow. "I thought she might–"</p><p>She shook her head. "Rebecca is having her day off – she's gone to visit relatives. She said she'd be here by tomorrow morning, but Mother doesn't expect her to actually turn up again until Wednesday."</p><p>"Oh, I see." He glanced about and fiddled with the brim of his top hat, twirling it and shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.</p><p>"I suppose I might offer you some tea before you go." Fanny pushed back her chair and – a little unsteadily – rose from it, gripping the side of the table for balance. "What time is it?"</p><p>"No..." Tom shook his head, taking a step back. "No, thank you, I... I don't want anything. It's too early for that."</p><p>She looked at him, opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again, going a bit red.</p><p>"I've made you uncomfortable," Tom said dejectedly. "I thought..." He'd thought, perhaps foolishly, she'd be happy to see him. "I'll go."</p><p>"Tom, wait a moment – <em>please</em>."</p><p>He waited, of course. "What's wrong?"</p><p>Fanny reached up and lightly gripped his face, dragging it down to hers, and kissed him.</p><p>Tom blushed, despite himself – it was the first time <em>she'd</em> initiated a shared kiss between them, and he hadn't been expecting it. Nothing had seemed more unlikely, and nothing could have been more sweet.</p><p>He pulled away to blink down at her in stunned surprise, cheeks flaming, then quickly closed the space between them again, returning the kiss but with more urgency and eagerness. His hands stroked her hair and neck and her jawbone, and they drew her back in the handful of times she seemed to be slipping away, seeking some small opening, some excuse, to stop.</p><p>"You need to let me <em>breathe</em>," she whispered in a laboured little laugh, finally succeeding in getting him to back up for a moment.</p><p>Tom stroked her cheek with the back of three fingers. "<em>Right</em>. Let me know when you've caught your breath."</p><p>"I–"</p><p>He leaned in.</p><p>She turned her head, sucking in her lips. "I think you need to go now."</p><p>"Not yet," begged Tom, slipping an arm around her waist. "Let me stay a little longer."</p><p>"Come" – she reached up and pushed her blonde curls away from her flushed face, then spun out of his grasp – "I'll walk you to the door."</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>, are you angry with me?"</p><p>She stumbled. "No, of course not." Her light eyes were doting, even though her voice was strained – it was clearly not sarcasm. "Why would I be?"</p><p>"Things have been...unsettled...lately." He shrugged. "That's all. And after that unfortunate business with Edmund... I was worried you...you might..."</p><p>"Oh." She gripped his arm, shaking her head. "Oh, no. Tom, <em>no</em>."</p><p>"It's only the impropriety of the thing you're worried about?" he double checked.</p><p>She nodded, a trifle sheepishly.</p><p>"<em>Damn</em>." His smile was teasing. "Damn your lazy housemaid for taking the day off and leaving us without a chaperone."</p><p>"It's <em>Sunday</em>," Fanny said quietly, letting her hand drop back down to her side, "you shouldn't swear." She still couldn't resist smiling back at him. "Though, I think my mother would agree with your sentiments."</p><p>Tom took her hand and kissed it in a very gentlemanly fashion, as if saying goodbye, then – before she could open the door – flipped it over at the wrist and kissed the inside of her arm, raising his eyebrows at her, his expression just a touch suggestive.</p><p>"<em>Mr. Bertram</em>!" She withdrew her hand.</p><p>"I was only teasing you, Fanny – and it's<em> Tom</em>, not <em>Mr. Bertram</em>."</p><p>She stared at him, unblinking.</p><p>"Let me stay a few more minutes, my sweet little creepmouse," he sighed, reaching out and playing with her hair, holding the tip of a curl between two of his fingers. "What harm could it possibly do?"</p><hr/><p>William Price hadn't had time to write his family to tell them he was returning to Portsmouth, albeit only for a short time – the return had been unplanned, brought on by an unexpected wind and a sudden need for provisions. So when he arrived in the harbour on that unseasonably warm and calm Sunday, he knew it would have to be a surprise visit. He was only sorry not to have Sam with him, the younger boy currently being on board another ship – their poor mother would be dreadfully disappointed.</p><p>It was Fanny he was most looking forward to seeing. Her last letter had been a while ago, and although he'd read it over dozens of times, he still wondered what new developments were in her life. Had her headaches gotten any worse? Did he need to send money home for a doctor to see to that? Was she getting on well with Susan and Betsey? Fanny wasn't one to quarrel, but he knew his other two sisters could be, particularly little Betsey. Was she eating enough? She always did eat too little. There was never enough of what she could keep down – buns and biscuits and milk – and too much of what she never had stomached well – Rebecca's slapdash cooking and their mother's additives to the already wretched meals.</p><p>How his favourite sister spent her recent hours were a mystery to him, though he suspected little enough changed from month to month in Portsmouth – it was a surprisingly stagnant place, despite being so near the wild, free water.</p><p>Truly ironic, William thought.</p><p>He was nearly to the narrow street which would take him home – it was Sunday, so he knew they'd all be at church, and he thought he'd be waiting by the front door when they returned, his arms outstretched – when a pretty figure came up to him with an anxious look on her face.</p><p>William smiled uncertainly. "Miss Gregory."</p><p>"<em>Mr. Price</em>," she blurted, straightening the ribbon of her oversize bonnet fitfully, "I have something to tell you – something urgent."</p><p>Arching a pale-gold eyebrow in surprise, William wondered what on earth she would say to him. Lucy Gregory – and all her friends – had been snubbing him for years; he liked putting out that it was because he was a midshipman, and they wouldn't look at a man who hadn't a commission, but it was really their inexplicable distaste for poor Fanny, who they misunderstood entirely.</p><p>Miss Gregory and her sisters – in William's opinion – had always been the most beautiful girls in Portsmouth, but they had not such good souls to match their pretty, spoiled faces. He was not a fool – he smiled and nodded at them in public, but he knew they – and especially Lucy – bullied his favourite sister so often as they could possibly get away with it.</p><p>Lucy was the ringleader of the sorry lot. The rest might have left off by now if not for Lucy's consistent encouragement.</p><p>So he couldn't imagine what she had to say to him.</p><p>"It's <em>Fanny</em>," she said as if he'd voiced his incredulity.</p><p>Heart sinking, he thought, <em>oh God</em>, Fanny is very ill, or she's been hurt – it must be something beyond measure, some horrible sickness or misfortune no one has had time to write to me about, if even <em>Lucy Gregory</em> is fretting over it.</p><p>He was so worried, in fact, that it barely occurred to him to wonder why Lucy Gregory was bunking off from church – where she ought to be, too – when she seemed to be the very picture of good health.</p><p>And Lucy, face white and eyes wide, hands pressed together, told him she'd seen a nefarious man going into the Prices' house as she walked by only a little while ago.</p><p>"And it's occurred to me, Mr. Price, that I did not see Fanny today at church – I had to leave early to take the air; the pews have been newly painted and it made me feel unwell."</p><p>So, if Lucy was not mistaken, William concluded, whatever the man was up to, he might have found poor Fanny at home – and sick, too, if she was missing the Sunday sermon.</p><p>In his grand hurry to race to the house and be sure his sister was all right, William didn't see Lucy Gregory's face recompose itself and settle, then, into a satisfied smirk.</p><p>He reached the house panting for breath, wrenched open the door and found a man – a man he did not immediately realise was in fine gentleman's clothing and was a complete stranger – pressing Fanny back against the wall beside the door, hissing – or so it seemed – something to her in a low voice. They were almost nose to nose, the man and Fanny, and William thought he heard his sister let out a distressed little moan, too afraid – he assumed – to speak clearly or cry out.</p><p>"Take your filthy hands off my sister!" shouted William, lunging and – wresting him away from Fanny – tackling the startled man to the floor.</p><p>Fanny yelped, "<em>William</em>!" and was caught – like a helpless fly in a spider's silken web – between extreme joy and pure horror.</p><p>"<em>Oi</em>!" cried Tom, rolling over just in time for William's fist to connect with his nose. "Ouch! Son of a–"</p><p>Fanny burst into tears, then, and William was obliged to leave off trying to get a second shot at Tom in order to stand up and comfort her.</p><hr/><p>"Oh, well <em>done</em>, William," snapped Susan (who had come in with the rest of the startled family – and Edmund and Mr. Yates – moments after the blow had landed and Fanny had begun weeping inconsolably), as she helped Tom to their father's chair by the fireplace. "You've given Fanny's intended a bloody nose."</p><p>William grimaced apologetically.</p><p>"Do keep try to keep your head tilted back, Mr. Bertram," Susan insisted. "It'll slow down the bleeding."</p><p>"<em>M'fine</em>," muttered Tom, tilting his head back anyway.</p><p>"Why're puttin' the likes of him in <em>my</em> chair? S'man not permitted to sit in his own house?" grumbled Mr. Price, glaring. Then, to William, arms raised, "Ah! Welcome home, m'boy!"</p><p>Susan took a somewhat discoloured handkerchief and pressed it to Tom's nose. "What were you <em>thinking</em>, William?"</p><p>Disentangling himself from his father's uneven bear hug with some visible difficulty, William blurted, "I listened to that silly Lucy Gregory – <em>why</em> I don't know."</p><p>Betsey was crying, fluttering around their father's chair in hysterics, bawling at the top of her voice, asking if Tom was going to die.</p><p>"<em>M'fine</em>," said Tom, again, rather nasally.</p><p>Edmund crouched by the chair and – after assuring a rather doubtful Betsey her rich cousin was not at death's door, that her brother hadn't actually killed him – glared up at Tom. "What were<em> you</em> thinking, running away from church and visiting here unsupervised?"</p><p>"M'a big boy, Edm'nd, I can take care of m'elf," he grunted.</p><p>"Dreadful lot of blood," said Mr. Yates, wringing his hands as Susan pulled back the bloodstained handkerchief, turned it over, folded it, and replaced it against Tom's inflamed nostril. "<em>Quite</em> a shot your future brother-in-law got in, if I'm not mistaken."</p><p>Richard, Charles, and Tom Price were dancing circles around their elder brother – making his conversation with an irate Susan rather clipped and difficult – too excited about his return to bother with their cousin. And Fanny was struggling not to show the same attitude for fear of making her dear Tom Bertram feel unloved, but she longed to throw her arms around him and dance for joy as well. She was also ashamed of having been caught alone with the man she was to marry, particularly when she hadn't <em>told</em> William yet that she was betrothed. It seemed so unnatural to her that he'd have to hear it from her mother and Susan because she was too busy sobbing to explain.</p><p>When the blood dripping from his nose had slowed enough that Tom could sit up and look properly at William, he decided he would have known him for Fanny's brother if they'd met on the street under normal circumstances. They had the same look about them – blonde, fair, willowy – and if William Price was healthier, older, and his eyes bluer, it did not take away from the fact that, when he stood by Fanny, they might easily have been mistaken for twins.</p><p>"So," said William, breaking free of his little brothers' merry circle and dispersing them by doling out some small, crudely-made gifts from his pockets, "Fanny truly is to be <em>married</em>?"</p><p>"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Price, hurriedly. "Very soon. It's all been arranged. She's glad you're here for the wedding, I'm sure."</p><p>"But, how <em>can</em> you–?" He did not know how to ask how they could let some wealthy man – relative or no – just turn up and pop their beloved, weak child under his arm and run off with her to some big house in the country.</p><p>"I wouldn't bother my head about that if I were you," said Edmund, gently. "Liable to drive you a bit mad, I shouldn't wonder. Others have tried. There's no coming between them now, I'm afraid."</p><p>If William was uncertain of Tom, he was liking Edmund very much – for the same reasons Fanny did – and this smoothed his considerably rumpled feathers over the matter. He rather wished Fanny was marrying the younger brother instead, even if he was the poorer of the two. He could be easy in his mind about <em>him</em>, at least.</p><p>Composing herself at last, her sobs lessening and becoming more like hiccups, Fanny walked over to her father's chair, dragging herself past William despite the aching pull in her heart, and placed a trembling little hand on Tom's shoulder.</p><p>It was a small gesture, but it was one which said, very plainly, she'd <em>chosen</em> him, she <em>wanted</em> him, and nothing – <em>no one</em> – would persuade her to give him up.</p><p>William saw her face, and – having known her all her life – he got the hint.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. A Wedding, Such As One Would Best Like</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Eleven:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>A Wedding, Such As One Would Best Like</em>
</p><p>The day before they were to be married, Tom proudly presented Fanny with a likeness of her brother William. He also told her about his plans – formerly shared only with Edmund and, in passing, Mr. Yates – to name a racing horse in her honour, and she thanked him politely, but she was much more taken up with the pretty little sketch of her favourite sibling.</p><p>"And how <em>did</em> you convince him to pose for you?" Fanny marvelled, shaking her head in delight. "William dislikes to be still for so long in a stretch." Unless, of course, they were sitting together by a fire, sharing their thoughts. But for a thing like this...? Perhaps if Tom had impressed upon him that it was a particular gift for <em>her</em>, perhaps <em>then</em>, but it still seemed...unlikely...</p><p>Tom had not, in reality, used William Price himself as the model for the piece – he'd worked from a mixture of memory and his already completed drawing of<em> Fanny</em>. The siblings were so alike that simply adding a more masculine jaw and changing the shading up, as well as drawing in different clothing, <em>did</em> rather transform the eldest Price girl's image into a likeness of William with remarkable ease.</p><p>"Oh," he said, hands behind his back, beaming at her, "I <em>couldn't </em>have him sit – he'd have told you about it in advance and spoiled the surprise, depend upon it."</p><p>"So this was your doing, purely from memory?" cried Fanny, glancing down at the likeness anew. "It's <em>wonderful</em>."</p><p><em>No, </em>you're <em>wonderful</em>, thought Tom, gratified. What a funny creature his dearest creepmouse was! No other girl in the world, he was quite certain, could have been so easily made happy.</p><p>Edmund – who was walking with them that day in lieu of Mr. Yates and Susan – stopped at the low stone parapet Fanny rested on and, glancing over her shoulder, remarked, "You've made him shorter than he is in life, Tom."</p><p>"No, no, I do not think he has," said Fanny; "for William is <em>sitting</em> – that <em>is</em> his height, more or less, as it appears when he's seated."</p><p>"Sitting, yes," said Tom, giving a merry little snap of his fingers and privately vowing never to mention he had not <em>intended</em> the figure in the drawing to appear to be sitting at all. "Just so. As Fanny says. Clearly the likeness of William is indeed seated."</p><p>Edmund was not taken in. "He <em>is</em> too short," the younger brother insisted; "he looks to be about the same height as Mr. Crawford in your likeness."</p><p>"Who?" asked Fanny, blinking.</p><p>"Ah," said Tom, very quickly, making a little <em>pop</em> with his mouth, "that would be the elder brother to the dark little lady our poor Edmund was, until most recently, completely under the power of. They are a very tiny lot – the Crawfords – like brownies in a fairy-tale. They are, you see, half-siblings to Grants, who live at the Mansfield parish." And – since there was to be a look containing smatterings of darkness exchanged between the Bertram brothers at this – he then hastily changed the subject. Tom didn't really suppose Edmund would break his word and say anything about his foolish, ill-conceived threat to marry Mary Crawford – especially not so close to the wedding – but he would take no chances. "I say, Fanny, speaking of horses, as we were earlier – do you<em> ride</em>?"</p><p>In this, Fanny had to disappoint him – she confessed that while she had no grievance with horses in stables, hitched to carts, or pulling a carriage, she was frightened of being <em>on</em> one and, furthermore, had had no occasion to even afford her the opportunity.</p><p>"That is too bad," Tom sighed indolently. "I had expected we might go riding about the countryside together every now and again. But certainly you shouldn't do anything you don't like."</p><p>"How <em>can</em> Fanny know if she likes it or not," Edmund argued, a bit put out, "if she has never tried it? She must do some things simply for their own sake, by way of learning. At Mansfield–"</p><p>"At Mansfield, <em>my wife</em>," said Tom, unmoved, "will never be made to do anything which displeases her. I should like her to smile always. And how can she smile if horses frighten her and she's forced upon one? It's<em> cruel</em>! Indeed, I should ride alone – when I must be about it – and <em>she</em> should be permitted to do whatever she likes best in my absence."</p><p>Edmund was at his wit's end with Tom – he was convinced he'd spoil Fanny's good habits – and Fanny found herself sighing as she let them argue, privately wondering if either of them would think to ask <em>her </em>whether she would rather be forced to confront her fear or else be left at home.</p><p>She liked Tom's plan best, really, for it struck her as the most comfortable, the most likely to permit her to keep her feet securely on the ground, but she saw the merit in Edmund's argument just as readily, even if Tom did not.</p><p>She was the sort of girl who knew what was good for her, generally.</p><p>Clutching the likeness of William – etched out so lovingly by Tom to please her – with one hand and reaching up with the other to stroke the chain from which her cross now hung – the most thoughtful, useful gift she'd ever received – Fanny felt her heart being jaggedly divided between the two brothers.</p><hr/><p>The wedding proved to be more of a success than any member of the Price family might even have hoped for.</p><p>The church was cleared of anybody who was not a guest, but several locals volunteered to be witnesses along with the family, so that was all right, and it left them with a merry bunch, a sizable gathering.</p><p>Even the ringleader of Fanny's tormentors (who we now know, and thus must refer to, as Lucy Gregory) was in attendance. Perhaps she could not truly believe the fine gentleman meant to marry <em>Fanny Price </em>of all people and suspected some manner of prank she wouldn't have missed the execution of for the world; but instead she saw the thing play out quite straight.</p><p>For her pains, she only got to see Fanny in a beautiful new dress being gazed upon lovingly by her intended. Their happiness was not only <em>real</em> it was – at least on that day – <em>absolute</em>.</p><p>Mr. Yates, who was seated beside her during the ceremony, thought poor Miss Gregory looked a bit sour, taking her to be on the verge of becoming sick, and offered her a comfit to soothe her stomach. She turned her nose up at it, however, so he shrugged and proceeded to eat all the contents of the open box on his lap by himself – they were gone less than a quarter into Edmund's wedding speech, well before he even opened up his Bible.</p><p>It was William who gave Fanny away, rather than Mr. Price, because their father's gout was acting up again and he could barely ease into the back pew, let alone walk down the length of the church with Fanny clinging to his arm. Mrs. Price made several frantic apologies for this, expressing her regret that such a thing should mar the day, but it was – really – just as Fanny wanted it and she could not have been happier.</p><p>Edmund did beautifully, nothing if not a professional, and he joined their hands so very gently when the time came. From 'dearly beloved, we are gathered...' onward, his manner, the way he spoke the words...<em>oh</em>...it was perfection itself, pure and beyond any reproach. A very, very fine thing indeed! The only notable deviance in his speech was that, when he asked if anybody present knew of a reason the pair should not be wed, he added, "Excepting my own already raised objections, of course," in a low voice.</p><p>Tom made a face at this, but otherwise kept his composure well enough.</p><p>William coughed and had to turn away.</p><p>Betsey tried to raise her small hand, but Susan wrested it back down.</p><p>Mr. Price said, "Eh? What's that?" rather too loudly, and got no answer.</p><p>When Edmund paused and gave a little nod, Fanny and Tom exchanged simple rings which Mr. Yates had procured for them (Tom had – in his excitement over getting married to begin with – very nearly <em>forgotten </em>they would need wedding bands and there was almost some trouble over it).</p><p>Tom greatly admired Fanny's delicate white hand as he slipped the ring onto her finger – such wonderfully lady-like fingers for someone who had lived in poverty! If only they did not clench and shake and perspire so! Poor nervous-hearted creature!</p><p>And, just like that, whether those present were pleased by it or not, Fanny Price became Mrs. Thomas Bertram.</p><p>Congratulations were given all around, some truly meant and others purely ceremonial and out of a sense of social politeness, and there was a small picnic arranged in celebration down at the harbour mouth after they all made their way out of the church.</p><p>They attempted to have some dancing, but the space – and the wind, which picked up rather messily – did not lend itself to such an activity, even a single dance between the bride and bridegroom proving difficult to pull off, and mainly the party consisted of frowning, straining persons covering their faces and trying to eat slices of cake – along with currant tarts, over-done puddings, and small, brittle sandwiches.</p><p>Lucy Gregory made a few disparaging remarks about the temperature of the champagne being served, but it was pointed out – even by her favourite companions – how unlikely <em>she</em> was to have champagne (warm or otherwise) served after her own wedding, should she marry a Portsmouth man.</p><p>The Price children and their local friends, however, had the time of their young lives, running up and down the length of the harbour halloing to one another and playing games. Charles was lost for several hours during a game of hide and seek, but Susan eventually found him – luckily doing so before Mrs. Price could get very worked up about the possibility of her dearest Charlie having fallen into the water, drowned, and been swept out into the cruel, cruel sea. He was, at any rate, perfectly dry when he was located, as well as in the company of two other also perfectly dry boys no one had even noticed were missing.</p><p>Although Tom and Fanny themselves did not stay overlong at the picnic, returning to the inn with Mr. Yates while it was still quite light out, Fanny was exhausted and suffering from another headache by the time they were through and it became readily apparent she would need rest. So, when Mr. Yates moved out of the room he was leaving to the newly-weds, Tom temporarily went with him and allowed Fanny the large bed to herself, only popping in to attend to her a handful of times in the night and to bring her what comforts he thought might help the hours pass less painfully for his new wife.</p><p>Mr. Yates was worn out from Tom's endless pacing, coupled with the way he banged the door open and shut constantly, and slept very little himself as a result, but he proved good-natured about the whole ordeal, feeling keenly that both of them – poor things – would have doubtless much rather been in their shared room together, on this particular night especially, and would not have inconvenienced him if it could have been prevented.</p><p>The next day was better for them both.</p><p>Fanny proved well enough to get up and have breakfast with the other guests at the inn, all of which were giving her rather irksome little side-eyes and winking at Tom, unaware that they'd spent the night apart, and they took the air together afterwards, dutifully visited the Prices for tea, who acted (aside from William and Susan) as if Fanny were an important lady and not much of a relation to themselves, and returned to the inn in reasonably amiable – if somewhat subdued – spirits by the time it was getting dark.</p><p>Fanny was changing behind one of the screens when Tom's head peeked out from around the other side. "You know, Fanny, it's suddenly occurred to me that this" – he motioned at the screen and stepped all the way around it – "is, well, rather unnecessary." Grinning, he tied a dressing-gown over his nightclothes and took a step towards her. "Force of habit, I suppose."</p><p>"Oh," said Fanny, blushing, too keenly aware she was in her under-things, "yes."</p><p>Tom <em>stared</em>, and her burning cheeks went from bright pink to vivid crimson. "D'you want some help with that?" He was motioning, vaguely, in the direction of her corset.</p><p>Fanny had, actually, been wearing it since the day before, since the wedding. She'd been unable to unlace it from the back without Susan's help, and her head had hurt her so dreadfully last night that she hadn't asked Tom, who she'd honestly been shy of bothering despite his being her husband now, so she'd been obliged to continue wearing it.</p><p>It was all right, really, but now she had to do <em>something</em> about removing it.</p><p>She settled on a weak nod, then squeaked out a small, "<em>Yes</em>," in case he hadn't seen it. "Please."</p><p>"Right...uh...let's see..." Tom moved behind her and examined it for a moment. "Here we are!"</p><p>"That's <em>tighter</em>," she gasped out.</p><p>"<em>Oh</em>. Sorry, Fanny." Patting her on the shoulder, he reached with his other hand and pulled the other end of the lacing, hoping that was how one loosened those blasted things – he hadn't much experience with removing corsets. "How's that, then? Have we got it off now?"</p><p>"It..." stammered Fanny. "There's a little stay in the front... My fingers aren't..." She was trying to unfasten it, but her numb, trembling fingers weren't cooperating. "Um..." She turned around. "It's just down here. Can you...?"</p><p>Tom didn't answer; he was staring again – his eyes focused very intently, and fixedly, on the swell of her breasts.</p><p>"Tom?"</p><p>"Hmm, <em>yes</em>?"</p><p>"It's not up there." She gave the corset a little downwards tug – which, in retrospect, probably didn't assist all that much in moving his attention in the direction she wanted – and tried to show him the fasten she needed undone.</p><p>"Oh, right – sorry – I was" – he coughed apologetically – "<em>distracted</em>."</p><p>Fanny drew in her breath and forgot to release it while Tom's fingers slid down the front of her corset and unfastened the stay. She let it out in a little rapid huff as he – looking rather pleased with himself – removed the corset and grinned broadly at her.</p><p>Light-headed and rather weak about the knees, Fanny wondered if she was going to faint in front of her husband and desperately hoped such was not the case. She had fainted a few times in her life before, always when it was least convenient, and it was decidedly <em>not </em>an experience she thought would be worth repeating under the current circumstances.</p><p><em>What</em>, though, was she meant to do now?</p><p>"You're <em>cold</em>!" Tom cried suddenly – and Fanny realised, then, she was shaking like a leaf – and hastily unfastened his dressing-gown and put it over her shoulders. "Poor Fanny! You're too far from the fire on this side of the room, I think. Why didn't you say anything? Here. Put your arms through the sleeves."</p><p>It was easier to pretend it <em>was</em> a chill that brought on her violent trembling, so she meekly did as he suggested, slipping her arms through the dressing-gown and pulling it – though she scarcely knew how she managed – around herself.</p><p>Tom reached around her, which only made her face go whiter still, and fastened the dressing-gown so it stayed secured about her waist. "Come – don't linger here – I'll get you some mulled wine and put you in front of the fire. You'll warm up quick as anything." In a low mutter, he growled, "I'm going to have a talk with the innkeeper about these ghastly draughts – see if I don't! The screens do <em>nothing</em>."</p><p>Fanny wanted to say, "Please, <em>don't</em>, not on <em>my</em> account," wanted to urge him not to trouble himself or the poor innkeeper, but all that came out was an unintelligible mumble.</p><p>For all his talk, however, of screens and innkeepers, it seemed Tom did know something of Fanny's true apprehension after all – enough to make her wonder if he was not playing with her a bit, hoping to get a funny reaction – for as he settled her down before the fireplace and placed a cup of mulled wine into her hands, entreating her to sip it slowly and see if she did not soon feel much better, he said, perhaps too causally, "It will be <em>my</em> first time, too."</p><p>Fanny nearly choked, coughing and spitting out the small sip she'd just taken. She knew, of course, what he must mean. He could be speaking of only one thing on their first proper night together after the wedding.</p><p>With a chuckle, he eased into the chair across from hers, reminded her there was no need to drink quite so fast – they had all the time in the world – she needn't gulp down more than she could swallow, then added, "If my father or Edmund asked, as I pray they never do, I'd make out that my abstinence was to do with ethics or religion – they <em>love</em> that sort of thing, especially Edmund, being what he is. But there needn't be secrets between <em>us</em>, Fanny." He poured himself a glass of wine and nearly finished the whole thing in a single swallow before setting the wineglass back down. "It's really more that... I've never quite understood men who can go about card tables and to the races, win, and then still find time to woo whatever pretty lady happens to be present at the event, dragging her off to some secluded guest bedchamber. I rather think they must <em>cheat</em>, you know. <em>I</em> never found the time for it."</p><p>Fanny took another sip of the mulled wine and stared down at her lap. She wondered if she ought to tell him this speech was not particularly romantic. But he must know it already – surely he must have <em>known</em> – he wasn't stupid. At least it was <em>honest</em> – she could not fault him for <em>that</em>.</p><p>"And, between ourselves – and please <em>do</em> promise you won't tell anyone, my sweet creepmouse – I've always been...uncertain...of my father's reaction if there was a real <em>scandal</em>. Goodness knows he made a big enough fuss over my gambling debts."</p><p>Fanny made some small noise.</p><p>"There almost was <em>something</em>, once," Tom went on, his gaze on the fire, "when I was younger...an incident..."</p><p><em>Oh!</em> Fanny didn't think she wanted to hear this. Why must he tell her this sort of story? Why now? She had, despite everything, such deep respect for him, for her lovely new husband. She was under no delusions regarding him, none that she could be aware of, and <em>still</em>... She was so very frightened of him saying something which would dull – even slightly – that whole-hearted regard. He mustn't tell her anything which he might later have cause to regret! They should be perfectly contented – for a while, at least – without any of these kinds of shocking speeches.</p><p>She looked up at him, her expression partially reproachful, partially pleading.</p><p>He did not notice. "I was attending a party, drinking as one does, and I don't remember leaving my host's home – truly, I don't – but I woke up in a house of–" He stopped, for he'd glanced away from the fire to glimpse Fanny's expression, and he'd seen her look at last. "What's that face?" His thoughtful look changed into one of amusement. "I do believe you're <em>jealous</em> – I've inspired jealousy in the most level-headed, cool-tempered girl I've ever met! Oh, how<em> splendid</em>! You can't imagine how <em>flattered</em> I am, Mrs. Bertram."</p><p>Fanny could not bring herself to speak.</p><p>"But, pray" – he scooted to the edge of his chair – "don't judge until you've heard all. I may well succeed in surprising you."</p><p>She nodded her assent. Her husband's eyes were playful, <em>beautiful</em>, so hard to meet and yet equally difficult to tear her gaze from even in this uncomfortable moment.</p><p>"So, I awoke – head pounding – in a house of ill repute, in an unfamiliar bed, and – well – you can imagine what I suspected might have happened though I recalled none of it."</p><p>She gnawed on the inside of her cheek.</p><p>"It took me the better part of an hour to locate the...I suppose I must call her a <em>lady</em>, though polite society certainly wouldn't...whose room it was."</p><p>Fanny imagined this woman to be beautiful, though Tom did not describe her or look – as he remembered her – enraptured as one typically did when recalling a great beauty. She imagined her to be good-looking in the exact opposite way to her own features – dark eyes, strong colour about the face, stout and curvy rather than merely willowy and slight in form...</p><p>"I asked her if there were...expenses...for the...um...room...and anything else I might have...well..."</p><p>While she had never properly <em>hated</em> anyone – not even Lucy Gregory – Fanny, despite knowing it was irrational, felt very, very near to openly despising this unnamed woman she'd never even met. This woman who – when you thought about it – had only been doing her job, even if it was a job any well-brought up, God-fearing person ought to disapprove of. This woman who clearly meant nothing whatever to Tom Bertram.</p><p><em>What's </em>wrong<em> with me?</em> Fanny thought, fiddling with her fingers in her lap.</p><p>"Come to find out," Tom finished, "all that happened was I – allegedly – mumbled, 'don't tell my father,' and passed out on the bed. Leaving me alone to drool on her fancy pillows, she went downstairs and shared a room with one of her housemates."</p><p>Fanny tried not to laugh, but a giggle escaped her. She pressed her hand to her mouth in a vain attempt to muffle the noise, resulting in a snort.</p><p>"Oh, yes, <em>laugh</em> – it's very funny," said Tom, as if it were anything but, though he was grinning as he spoke.</p><p>"I'm sorry," she managed, regaining composure and trying to give him a look he would judge to be sympathetic.</p><p>"Anyway, it's all just as well," Tom said in a voice that was somehow both decided and airy. "You ought to be my first – and last – you're the only woman I can never think of...as..." He trailed off, looking into her face with all the wonder one usually saves for stargazing. "You have <em>such</em> eyes – so soft and light – and so pleasing a form. I couldn't fancy someone who wasn't as you are."</p><p>Poor Fanny was not made of stone; she was the farthest thing from unconquerable – such words, and so tender in their expression, had a ready affect on her. Tom might have asked almost anything of her, right then, and she would have agreed, melting into her seat as she was, warmed by the intensity of his attentions far more than by the fire or the mulled wine.</p><p>Tom rose from his chair, strode over to hers, and offered her his spread hands. She took them gingerly, sliding her fingertips slowly into his palms as his grasp tightened gently around her – finally steady – hands and pulled her up in front of him.</p><p>Letting go of her hands, which dropped – in a most leaden fashion – to her sides at once, Tom then reached to unfasten the dressing-gown he'd previously draped over her, slowly peeling it back and gazing intently at her rumpled under-things, at the way they clung to her body in certain places and hung off – ready to be removed for the night – in others.</p><p>Fanny let out a small, nervous <em>hem</em>ming noise as the dressing-gown was peeled back from her shoulders and discarded onto the chair behind her. His hands were suddenly exploring – feeling, tickling, tugging, caressing – and it was not unpleasant. She managed to smile at him in response to this affection, and to reach out and touch his arm in an admiring manner, feeling at his muscles and marvelling – though she did not say, did not <em>need</em> to say, it out loud – how delightfully strong he was and how nice it was going be to be <em>held</em> by these arms.</p><p>"<em>Ah</em>," he said, after a few moments. "Ah, me." He took Fanny's hand in his own and began to lead her away from the fireplace. "To bed, wife."</p><p>Fanny eased onto the bed uncertainly, keeping very still for the first few moments, turning her head to look at Tom, who was yet standing – and was, in truth, little help in guidance, since he was quite shamelessly <em>staring</em> once again.</p><p>Coming to the conclusion – however tentative – that she ought to be doing <em>something</em>, Fanny sat partway up and began to remove the last of her under-things. Considering Tom's difficultly helping her out of the corset earlier, she was not altogether convinced he'd be able to figure – on his own – exactly how they were meant to come off, and yet she was also convinced he meant to have her out of them.</p><p>"Let <em>me</em> do it," he blurted – and there was some awkwardness, since he seemed hardly to know what he was about, and he kept stopping every few seconds in order to kiss and caress her anywhere he happened to feel inclined to during the process, but it was completed by Tom in the end rather than Fanny herself.</p><p>Then he seemed to recall he was still wearing his own nightshirt and he pulled it over his head.</p><p>Despite it being rather dark in the room, there was still firelight and candlelight enough to see him by, and Fanny had to draw in a very sharp breath. She had brothers and a father – and none of them (except perhaps for poor, often mortified, William) had half the care to their own modesty as they ought – so she'd seen an unclothed man before, of course, only she had not seen <em>this</em> man unclothed before.</p><p>Nor had she seen one undressed while in Tom's particular state.</p><p>In what seemed to be less than seconds, less than a heartbeat, less time than it took for her to release her drawn-in breath, he was in the bed with her – had rolled himself on top of her – and was pulling the blankets – along with the thick coverlet – over them both.</p><p>He murmured her name – then called it out with rather a great deal more volume – and Fanny whispered and sighed her husband's name back to him in reply.</p><p>If there was any difficultly, any embarrassments or disappointments or general bumbling and fumbling about, between the couple, it was their own private affair and – whatever else may have been the case – they both appeared reasonably content when they'd finished.</p><p>Afterwards, Fanny thought to creep over to the other side of the bed. Perhaps she only expected it was what was <em>done</em> – she had, probably, heard the noise of doors slamming and her father leaving after sharing in a private moment with her mother, and while judging <em>leaving the room</em> itself to be both imprudent (they were in an inn, after all) and most likely unnecessary, supposed husbands preferred to be left alone when it was done.</p><p>Tom, though, would not permit her to slink away. "No,<em> that</em> won't do – what <em>are</em> you thinking of, I wonder, Fanny? – I mean to <em>hold you</em>, of course."</p><p>And Fanny could only smile and oblige him by staying put.</p><p>His face buried in her hair, arms wrapped around her, Tom mumbled what had – at every moment starting from the minute he began thinking of wanting to marrying her – been implied, what was inferred by simple reason and logic, but – as Fanny realised suddenly – had not actually, prior to this, been directly said.</p><p>
  <em>I love you.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Acquaintances & Acquittals, Freely Offered</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Twelve:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Acquaintances &amp; Acquittals, Freely Offered</em>
</p><p>What do most young ladies, newly married, awake to in the morning after their first night with their husbands?</p><p>Who can say?</p><p>It depends, certainly, on the situation of the husband, as well as on the temperament and general character of both spouses.</p><p>What<em> Fanny</em>, now Mrs. Bertram, awoke to was a thin slice of sunlight cutting through a gap in the curtains and sliding across her face in a flickering golden flash. She moaned softly and raised a hand over her still clinched-shut eyes, rubbing at them with the back of her wrist before sitting up and blinking.</p><p>The first thing her eyes settled upon, as the room came into focus, was Tom – across the way, at the writing desk – wearing his nightshirt and – also, quite unexpectedly, and very much to Fanny's amusement – a matching nightcap with a droopy, dangling pale-grey tassel. A tassel which he kept pushing – thoughtlessly, as if it were second nature to him – out of the way so he could properly see whatever it was he was writing.</p><p>Fanny smiled and – looking for something to wear, as she was still unclothed under the warm blankets – reached for Tom's dressing-gown. It had somehow made its way from its place, the night before, by the fire, to being haphazardly strewn across the foot of the bed. She did not think he had left it purposefully there for her, more that he had worn it at some point while she still slept and discarded it when it became an encumbrance, dropping it there – and indeed she thought she must prepare to live with a rather untidy husband for the rest of her life, though it was no more than she expected – but she doubted he'd mind her borrowing it again.</p><p>Quietly, she fastened it around herself and pulled her mussed blonde curls out from beneath the folded collar, neatening her person as best she could before walking over to her husband, stationing herself behind him, and then dropping her hands down lightly onto his shoulders.</p><p>"Who's there?" she teased, leaning over him.</p><p>He started, and almost spilled some ink, quickly catching the ink-pot before it could tip over from his sudden jolt. "<em>Fanny</em>! I didn't hear you get up."</p><p>She flicked the tassel on his nightcap, making it sway. "Such a fine hat you have, Mr. Bertram."</p><p>He craned his neck to look at her, laughing defensively. "My head often feels chilled in the mornings."</p><p>"I only jest – truly, I think it suits you very well."</p><p>"I'm glad – though, d'you what I think?"</p><p>"What's that?"</p><p>"<em>I</em> think, you and I need to do something about this constant propriety of yours – you <em>will </em>constantly refer to me as Mr. Bertram. No matter how many times I correct you – it's very vexing, you know. You get it right for a few glorious moments, and then you're back to it all over again." He tsked, pouting at her in jest. "Even making you Mrs. Bertram – wedding and bedding you – hasn't corrected this oversight."</p><p>"Mmm, well, <em>maybe</em>," said Fanny, rubbing his arms, "you've only endeared the name to me by sharing it."</p><p>"Damn," he laughed, kicking his foot against the side of the desk so that his chair slid further out with a dragging <em>screech</em>. "I suppose I must grit my teeth and endure it, then; nothing else to be done."</p><p>And Fanny sank down into his lap and put her arms about his neck. She gestured with her chin at the desk. "What were you writing?"</p><p>"A letter to my father," he explained with an air of exaggerated gloom, sighing heavily. "I promised Edmund I'd write home after the wedding."</p><p>"Will he be very angry with you? Your father?"</p><p>"I expect he will, but it's all his own fault, really – for once <em>I'm</em> not to blame. I've not done anything worth regretting." He smiled at her, fairly beaming. "You can't imagine how liberating that feels."</p><p>Cheeks reddening, Fanny dropped his gaze and unlocked her wrists from behind his neck. "I do hope he won't..." She couldn't help thinking of what Edmund had said, about Tom possibly goading Sir Thomas into an outburst over this, about herself being placed in the line of fire so to speak. The coolness which might now arise between father and son, with <em>her</em> as the catalyst, was a horrid thought to entertain. "I do not wish you to quarrel on <em>my</em> account."</p><p>"It's nothing for you to worry your lovely head over, creepmouse."</p><p>She touched his cheek. "I can't help worrying for you, tomcat."</p><p>His brow lifted. "<em>Tomcat</em>?"</p><p>"What, are you the only one – between the pair of us – who is permitted to dole out amusing pet-names?" she laughed. "Besides, it suits you at least as well as <em>creepmouse</em> suits me."</p><p>"Yes, I suppose it does. Well done." Tom had not considered raw wit to be one of Fanny's virtues – and did not actually<em> require</em> such cleverness in a wife, preferring the idea of an especially sweet spouse to the notion of one with a sharp tongue – so he was somewhat taken by surprise. But he was also <em>impressed</em>. It was not a sign of <em>brilliance</em>, perhaps, but he found it endearing enough. "I suppose I must soon be used to it – as soon as I'm used to being a henpecked husbandman."</p><p>And Fanny giggled, quite aware that Tom did not expect to be ruled by her in the least.</p><p>Indeed, for her own sake, she had no desire to make him behave any differently than he regularly would, save if his own inward guide might suggest such behaviour to him. It was no good, she knew, people doing this or that just because they were <em>told</em> – nobody stayed good or changed for the better if they were dictated to. Being dictated to was something Fanny herself, despite her demure manner, had never abided with any sign of outward cheer.</p><p>"<em>God</em>," moaned Tom; "what I wouldn't give to stay here all day and simply enjoy you looking at me like this." He brought his hand up and his fingers trailed the seam along the top of the dressing-gown, sliding inwards. "You've got nothing on under this – save for your brother's cross and my brother's chain – have you?"</p><p>Fanny shook her head.</p><p>He moaned again. "Hang the blasted, damnable letter – it'll keep – let us go back to bed."</p><p>"<em>No</em>," said she, peeling back his nightcap and kissing his temple. "You need to finish writing your father – it's important. Besides, if we don't make some haste, we might miss breakfast."</p><p>"Bother breakfast," he grumbled. "What do I care for breakfast – or letters, or anything else – when I have the company of a beautiful woman?"</p><p>Fanny privately thought, then, it was <em>very</em> a good thing Tom Bertram had not taken – regardless of his dubious reasons – to having flirtations which might have become scandals in addition to his gambling and drinking. He was far too charming when playing the part of a lover; his jittery over-earnestness only added to his appeal, giving it an unpractised air. There would have been a great many broken hearts among the ladies of high society if things had been different.</p><p>She kissed him again, this time on the mouth, then climbed off his lap.</p><p>"<em>Tease</em>," he said with a slight pout as Fanny crept over to the other side of the room to dress herself. "Well," he contented himself, after a pause during which he'd glanced back down at his incomplete letter, "at least we shall have two full weeks ahead of us."</p><hr/><p>They did not miss breakfast. Indeed, they were not even particularly late for it – the majority of the guests, including Mr. Yates, were only just seating themselves at the table when they arrived downstairs.</p><p>Fanny helped herself to some tea and biscuits, and Tom urged to her try a bit of cheese and a boiled egg. Mr. Yates cheerfully inquired about her health, and she replied that it was well enough. The innkeeper bought out some small buns studded with nuts and raisins, which Fanny had a couple bites of as well and did not find disagreeable.</p><p>"I <em>say</em>, Bertram, old bean," Mr. Yates remarked, before folding his napkin and rising from his place, "did you <em>always</em> have quite so many teeth?" He had never, he admitted, seen Tom smile so widely before today. "<em>Such </em>a mouthful of teeth you have!"</p><p>After Mr. Yates departed, to do they were not altogether sure <em>what</em>, a lady who was – perhaps – about Susan's age, give or take a year or two, arrived with a person they could only take for her husband, and – as she sat, chattering away – loudly claimed Tom as an acquaintance.</p><p>"To think of running into<em> you</em>, Mr. Bertram! Isn't it the funniest joke ever?" She tittered and reached over to poke her husband, who grunted in faint acknowledgement. "Oh, it is<em> too </em>good. I did not expect to see anybody I knew while passing through Portsmouth."</p><p>Fanny whispered, "Who <em>are</em> they?"</p><p>"I haven't the foggiest notion," Tom admitted under his breath, and – more audibly – introduced Fanny to them as Mrs. Bertram, perhaps in hopes that the two acquaintances he could not place for the life of him would give their names in return.</p><p>"What?" laughed the little lady, all merriment. "Tom Bertram <em>married</em>? How unexpected." She poked her husband again. "Isn't it unexpected?"</p><p>He gave them what was, fairly enough, a charming side-smile, then went back to stabbing at his breakfast. The plate under his utensils scraped and <em>clink</em>ed.</p><p>"Mr. Wickham doesn't talk <em>half so much</em> as he used to before we got married," said his young wife, giggling rather unbecomingly.</p><p>"That, my dear, is because you talk enough for the both of us, and <em>then</em> some."</p><p>"And <em>what</em>," she went on without acknowledgement of the possible insult to herself, "is your Christian name, Mrs. Bertram? I need to know it! Everyone will be sure to ask me – when I tell them I've met you, which of course I must – and I shan't know how to reply."</p><p>"Frances – <em>Fanny</em>," she managed.</p><p>"<em>Oh</em>," she laughed – it seemed she could rarely speak <em>without</em> laughing. "The same name as my mother! Whatever <em>were</em> the odds?" She then added, to Tom, "Your wife is as quiet as my husband, Mr. Bertram – when we meet in society, you and I will talk about everything which happens in the world while our dearest ones sit morosely at our sides and say nothing at all. <em>Hee, hee</em>."</p><p>"Indeed, I rather expect it," said Tom, with a tight smile, still trying to work out who the devil she <em>was</em>. He could not recall knowing any <em>Mrs. Wickham</em>, and so supposed she must have been introduced to him – if indeed they <em>had</em> ever met before today – by another name prior to marriage. But she was young, and could not have been <em>out</em> so very long before bagging her prize...</p><p>"Oh, <em>Georgie</em>, we must make haste! We're sure to be late if we tarry too much longer!" And she placed her napkin beside her plate and tugged at her husband's arm. "Farewell, dearest Mr. Bertram – and the same to your wife – I will tell everyone I see how very pretty she looked and that I think exceedingly well of her."</p><p>Mr. Wickham, rising in turn, said goodbye to Fanny pleasantly and gave Tom a friendly nod, but the colonel's (for such he was, as they could see from his red uniform when he stood up) overall bearing – his obvious lack of happiness in married life – was rather a grey cloud both newly-weds were very glad to have lifted with their departure.</p><p>"<em>Women</em>!" exclaimed Tom, when the Wickhams were out of earshot. "What is about being out – or married, as the present case may be – which makes a girl transform from a sombre little thing with nothing to say into a silly, simpering, over-familiar chatterbox? Half the time, whenever I sit in a room with a girl-child who is not out, I can't induce them to speak to me – not one single, blasted word, even if I should be there an entire hour – but <em>then</em>! Then, they go about claiming me as an acquaintance when they're older and I haven't the slightest idea who the devil they <em>are</em>! I never do know which way to <em>look</em> when it happens, Fanny!</p><p>"This morning, I feel like the jest of the entire inn.</p><p>"There really ought to be a law against claiming a fellow as an acquaintance just because he played cards with your father, or your brother – or your father's brother – in your presence the one time! You must have said <em>one complete sentence</em> to the man in the course of the evening – that ought to be the rule."</p><p>"You'll never have that problem with Betsey," Fanny pointed out, grinning.</p><p>"Oh, <em>yes</em>!" Tom chuckled. "That is why I think your sisters – save for yourself – must be the best sort of girls alive. One never has to worry about being unable to recollect Susan or Betsey when they're brought up – they leave an impression."</p><p>"They do <em>that</em>, certainly," said Fanny. "Susan was already out when you met her, though."</p><p>"Was she more reserved before?" Tom arched an eyebrow. "I'd never believe it of her."</p><p>"No, not really," admitted Fanny, reaching over and touching his hand. "Thank you for inviting Susan to Mansfield – she's so happy about coming with us when we leave; she was packed before the wedding."</p><p>"Oh, it was my pleasure." Tom had not bothered to tell her it was <em>Edmund's</em> idea rather than his own, that he'd been more against it than for it. Edmund already had the credit for the chain for her cross, and he wanted some credit all his own for making dearest Fanny happy. "Whatever pleases you is most agreeable to me."</p><hr/><p>"It's so strange," murmured Fanny, staring up at the ceiling, her arm under her head, "being back here now."</p><p>Fanny and Susan Price were sprawled out on the mattress in the old room which had belonged to all three girls – once, what felt like a lifetime ago, before Mary died, all <em>four</em> girls – and soon, in less than two-week's time now, would be only Betsey's if her brothers did not demand some rights to it.</p><p>And goodness help them, Fanny thought, if they tried it – Betsey would not concede to sharing easily.</p><p>"Does it seem smaller?" Susan asked, curious. "I can imagine – after spending your nights at the inn with Tom – it would seem so much smaller."</p><p>"No, it's the room at the inn that feels big." Fanny sighed. "What I will do with all the space in Mansfield, when the room at the inn feels like the length of an <em>ocean</em>... I don't <em>know</em>."</p><p>"How is it, being married?"</p><p>"<em>I</em> like it," Fanny replied demurely, but with vividly coloured cheeks. "I don't suppose <em>everyone</em> does care so much for it, but Tom is very good to me."</p><p>Susan's brow lifted.</p><p>"I wish," she went on, quietly ignoring the implications of the look she caught on her sister's face out of the corner of her eye, "it could be like this <em>always</em>." If only this could go on forever and ever – if only there never was another racing season to start up again – if only there wasn't a family waiting at Mansfield Park who mightn't welcome her presence nearly so much as her new husband did. "I was never happier than I am now."</p><p>"Was your first night very awful?"</p><p>"<em>Awful</em>?" said Fanny, turning her head to look at Susan in some astonishment. "No! No, not at all."</p><p>"I've heard it can..." Susan trailed off, a little coloured about the face herself. "I've heard it can <em>hurt</em> the first time."</p><p>"Oh, it does, a little – a <em>very</em> little – but Tom tries so hard to be gentle, you know."</p><p>"When will he be back with Edmund?"</p><p>"I'm not sure – why do you ask?"</p><p>Susan sighed. "I'm just wondering when he's coming to drag you away and leave me alone with Betsey. She's been a proper <em>beast</em> since your wedding."</p><p>"It won't be for much longer – we'll all four of us be at Mansfield Park soon, and Betsey can hardly torment you <em>there</em>."</p><p>"I know," admitted Susan, "and it's very kind of Tom to arrange it."</p><p>"I suppose he <em>has</em> arranged it..." Fanny sounded uncertain, halting.</p><p>"What do you mean?"</p><p>"Well, I saw his letter – the one about me to his father – and he did not..." He had not mentioned, in any part Fanny which had read, <em>Susan</em>. "But I suppose it was arranged elsewhere – or that Edmund saw to it somehow."</p><p>"They <em>must</em> know," said Susan, though not as if she really believed it, "what they're about better than us." She decided on a change of subject, returning to the previous discourse. "So your husband is a good lover, is he? That's <em>most</em> fortunate for you. I bet if you'd married someone from <em>here</em> you wouldn't be half so pleased."</p><p>"<em>Susie</em>!"</p><p>"I'm just glad you're so happy with him, that's all."</p><p>"I truly am," said Fanny, in a smaller – rather softer – voice. "I did not suppose it possible to..." Pulling her arm down from underneath herself, she rolled onto her back again and folded her hands against her abdomen. "I would not have thought I could..."</p><p>"He loves you, and you love him! To think this all came from that one night – that very first night he saw you break off from the dancing and I thought him so rude for leaving you with no introduction."</p><p>"You <em>snubbed</em> him," laughed Fanny, remembering.</p><p>Susan laughed, too, along with her sister – hard enough to shake the mattress. "And you scolded me for it."</p><p>"I <em>didn't</em>!"</p><p>"You were cross with me – you took his part – it's the same thing."</p><p>"I had a <em>headache</em>."</p><p>The door burst open and Betsey came bounding in, leaping up onto the mattress, announcing that Tom and Edmund were downstairs and Tom was asking for <em>Fanny</em>. She said it with something of a catch in her pert little voice – she thought it most unfair that Fanny and Susan were going to Mansfield and no one was thinking of inviting her. She wished she were older – she was certain that if she had only been old enough to be out, rich Cousin Tom wouldn't have preferred boring, wavering Fanny to her, and <em>she'd</em> be the one riding off in a horse-drawn carriage to a big house soon. It was like watching her elder sisters go off on Assembly Night and being unable to follow them to the dancing – only worse. So, so much worse. And if <em>Susan</em> got to go – even though <em>she</em> wasn't married to Tom – Betsey thought it rather a slight not to be invited as well.</p><p>"But wouldn't you be sorry to leave our mother?" Fanny asked, when she vocalised some of these thoughts as her elder sisters climbed off the mattress and walked across the room, leaving her behind as they always were these days. "She loves you so."</p><p>"She has the <em>boys</em>," was all Betsey had to say on the matter, bouncing up and down. "And I want to live in a big house with fancy things, too. S'not <em>fair</em>!"</p><p>"Has she been this way," whispered Fanny, with one glance over her shoulder into the open bedroom at Betsey kneeling on the mattress in a right pretty sulk, as they both made their way down the narrow stairs, "<em>all the time</em> since I married Tom?"</p><p>"No," Susan sighed, shaking her head. "No, indeed. Sometimes she is so, so much worse. God help the unsuspecting gentlemen who'll be looking for a wife when <em>she's</em> old enough to marry."</p><p>"I think, <em>maybe</em>," murmured Fanny, holding tightly to the banister as she stepped down onto an uncertain spot on the stairs, praying her foot would not actually go straight through the warped, brittle wood, despite such being a very real possibility, "if you didn't bring God into it, Susie, you would be right."</p><hr/><p>Two weeks, as Tom sourly pointed out to Edmund, was not enough time to have new clothes, a proper wardrobe for a Mrs. Bertram, made for Fanny – he knew<em> that</em> much about the process – before they were to arrive at Mansfield Park, but he saw no reason why Fanny – and Susan, too, for that matter – shouldn't buy other trinkets and things for themselves. He had no real credit in the local Portsmouth shops, despite being the son of a baronet, but he had enough loose card money to give to his wife and sister-in-law, and he told them to purchase whatever they liked best.</p><p>Tom believed this a benevolent gesture, and his intentions were good in themselves, but it all ended with rather less agreeableness than he anticipated.</p><p>Not everyone in Portsmouth was a gossiping woman, or the husband or brother of a gossiping woman, and so not quite <em>everybody</em> knew that Fanny was Mrs. Bertram now, or that Susan – one of so blasted<em> many</em> Price children – was able to honestly come by several half sovereigns to spend on frivolities.</p><p>Rather than spending the day purchasing things as they saw fit, the Price sisters spent the greater portion of the morning – before giving up and turning back down towards the harbour, despite being unescorted – being turned out of shops and shooed from store-fronts with many nasty threats.</p><p>In the afternoon, when they met up with Tom again, he was – as well as appalled – greatly surprised.</p><p>Edmund, however, was not. "For mercy's sake, Tom, <em>tell</em> me you did not simply hand them money and send them off."</p><p>"I most certainly <em>did</em> – whatever fault can you possibly find in that?"</p><p>"The Prices," said Edmund, slowly, his face incredulous, "are known here for being a poor family of little means. <em>You're</em> known, mostly, to the innkeeper here, and to your own passing circle. What did you really <em>think </em>would happen?"</p><p>"I didn't–" began Tom.</p><p>"Exactly," finished his brother. "You <em>didn't think</em>." In a lower voice, "You never do."</p><p>"It's all right," said Fanny, touching Tom's arm and giving him a small smile. "There wasn't anything in those shops I <em>needed</em>."</p><p>Susan nodded and said much the same, following her sister's magnanimous lead. "The stores here are cheap, anyway – we would only have wasted your money in dirty little shops."</p><p>"It was <em>much better</em>," added Fanny, still smiling and gripping her husband's arm, "to save the coins for borrowing volumes of Shakespeare from the circulating library; Susan and I found several plays we hadn't read yet and we enjoyed them with hot buns down by the dockyard. You should join us next time – we never enjoyed ourselves more."</p><p>"We found a book on Joan of Arc as well," Susan put in a trifle excitedly with brightened eyes. "She lived during the reign of Henry Ⅵ. I never knew that before."</p><p>"We both agreed they should not have burned her," said Fanny, with solemnity.</p><p>For his part, Tom was much cheered by this turn in the conversation – and conceded with amiability how it was indeed a shame about them setting fire to 'poor old Joan', though that was the French for you, always burning and chopping off the heads of all the most interesting people – but Edmund was displeased and not so willing to change the subject.</p><p>"You can't simply acquit him of <em>every</em> thoughtless mistake, cousin," he sighed, gazing mournfully at Fanny; his warm, sad eyes were overflowing with pity for her – for what he judged to be her new lot in life. "My brother spoils much too easily when he's indulged."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yes, that was Lydia from Pride and Prejudice making a cameo at Tom and Fanny's breakfast, if anyone's wondering. She just sort of showed up, and I couldn't tell you why - this really isn't meant to be a crossover, LOL.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. The Beginning of Middles, Such As They Are</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Thirteen:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>The Beginning of Middles, Such As They Are</em>
</p><p>Fanny – once again wearing Tom's dressing-gown with very little underneath – sat by the window of their room in the inn, looking out at the rather charming – if slightly obstructed – view of the harbour. She wondered how she could not have realised, prior to these last fourteen days, how very beautiful it was. Nothing in Portsmouth had ever struck her as being particularly prepossessing of beauty, not in all her time growing up here, yet in the days she'd spent with Tom after their wedding it had altogether transformed.</p><p>Or perhaps <em>she </em>had – she did feel different, bolder, happier.</p><p>Certainly, she felt prettier herself – it was difficult to feel drab or unworthy of notice when Tom was constantly looking at her admiringly.</p><p>He was looking at her now, as a matter of fact, glancing up from his sketchbook, rubbing his charcoal-stained thumb and index fingertips together thoughtfully.</p><p>"Would you mind, very much, Fanny, pulling that dressing-gown off your shoulder a bit?"</p><p>Blushing, she did so, then – as he, after a rather intense stare, returned to his sketching – she looked out the window again.</p><p>A strange feeling came over her – a suspicion of sorts – and, slowly rising to her feet, she began to take a turn about the room, circling her way so that she could come up behind Tom, who – for his own part – had not even seemed to realise the alleged subject of his artwork had left her place.</p><p>Fanny peered over his shoulder, down at the open sketchbook in his lap, her pale-gold brow furrowed. "Tom, you aren't drawing me at all." The only thing committed to the thick paper was the shape of the window and shadowed hints of the harbour beyond. "You're doing a landscape piece."</p><p>"Hmm?" His fingers kept working, shading the place under the sill's likeness, but his eyes flickered upwards. "What's your point?"</p><p>"I'm not sure I understand – if you weren't drawing me," laughed Fanny, "why was I sitting there, and why did you ask me to pull the dressing-gown lower?"</p><p>Tom blinked, then reached for the decanter on the table beside him. "No reason. I simply wanted to see your bare shoulder."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>He poured himself a drink. "What can you mean, <em>why</em>? You're nice to look at and you're my wife. Suddenly I have need of another reason?"</p><p>Fanny put her arms around him from behind the chair and planted a kiss on his cheek, then another a little lower, near his jawbone. "I don't spoil your concentration, do I?"</p><p>"You<em> didn't</em>," he said, placing his glass down beside the replaced decanter. "You rather are <em>now</em>."</p><p>She loosened her grasp on him and began to go, and he reached behind himself to grab her hand and prevent her. "Oi, not so fast, I didn't say <em>stop</em>."</p><p>Fanny moved so that she was in front of the chair, smiling down at him. Her hand was still in his, and he rubbed the back of it affectionately with his smudged thumb, leaving traces of grey on her pale skin.</p><p>"I think I've had enough sketching for the day," Tom murmured. "There are <em>other</em> actives I might enjoy while there's still time."</p><p>The mention of 'time' made Fanny think. "Your father has not sent the carriage yet – perhaps it has not been convenient? I suppose it has not been two weeks, really – not already – not until tomorrow. That is fourteen days exactly since we were married, isn't it?"</p><p>"Alas, no, Fanny –<em> most</em> people would say it has been a fortnight already – it's sixteen days since then, at least, I'm certain of it." And no one wanted such not to be the case more than Tom himself, whose mood had turned rather gloomy at the unsavoury change in subject. Most of their things were already packed, in dreaded anticipation. Brightening, he added, "But perhaps my father chooses to give us another week. Jolly sporting of him, if he has." He rose up from the chair and slipped his arms around Fanny's waist. "If that's the case, we have <em>plenty</em> of time still."</p><p>No sooner had he buried his face in Fanny's neck (feeling blindly to unfasten the dressing-gown) and taken a deep breath after making that statement, than the sound of hooves clopping and strong wheels of fine quality running over a bad road drifted up through the open window.</p><p>Somebody cried, "There's a carriage for Mr. Bertram – just arrived from Mansfield Park – someone fetch him!"</p><p>"<em>Whyyyy</em>?" groaned Tom, letting go of his wife; the knot in the fasten was only partially loosened, leaving the dressing-gown open at the front so that it showed a tantalising vertical line of white skin between her breasts.</p><p>Fanny scurried away, fleet and soundless as a mouse; she still needed to dress and put away the last of her things before they could fetch Susan and Edmund, say goodbye to her family, and depart.</p><p>There was a knock at the door. "Tom? Fanny? Are you decent?"</p><p>Think of the devil – Edmund himself, already looking for them, probably having heard the carriage rolling up from his own room.</p><p>"<em>Define decent</em>!" Tom called, cupping his hands over his mouth and shouting in the direction of the door.</p><p>Fanny – the only acceptable-looking dress she owned save for the one she'd worn to her wedding draped over her shoulder – slipped behind a screen. "It's all right, Tom – let him in."</p><p>"<em>Must</em> I?"</p><p>"<em>Tom</em>!" Edmund knocked again, louder and with more urgency.</p><p>"There's no need to<em> shout</em>, brother – the latch isn't even in place!"</p><p>Fanny stepped around the screen as Edmund entered, dressed now and looking very neat and respectable as she tucked her hair, save for her loose ringlets at the front, securely into a bonnet.</p><p>"Are we ready?" asked Edmund, giving Fanny a kind, encouraging smile.</p><p>"<em>No</em>," Tom muttered sulkily, as Fanny nodded in affirmation and assured Edmund their things were packed and could be carried down as soon as it was convenient – they simply needed to say their farewells and to fetch Susan.</p><p>"Very well, then," said Edmund, nodding grimly, "I'll see you both downstairs in five minutes."</p><p>"He's anxious," Fanny noted upon her brother-in-law's departure. "He thinks your father–"</p><p>"My brother worries too much," muttered Tom, waving it off, perhaps because – deep down, now that the hour of judgement, so to speak, had at last arrived – he was growing anxious as well and was loath to admit it.</p><p>Tom had been so extraordinarily happy and contented – in a manner so far beyond his wildest expectations – for too long at a stretch to relish, now, the satisfaction of revealing his recent actions to his father as much as he'd thought he would.</p><p>Not, of course, that he was planning – as a result of these halting feelings – on being meek about it, or appearing penitent and chastised upon arrival at Mansfield Park, the way he was sure Edmund would <em>like</em> him to – such was not, quite simply, his <em>way</em>.</p><hr/><p>There were few tearful goodbyes to be shared between the Prices in regards to Fanny and Susan's departure. William was already gone, back at sea, and the other boys were too busy trying to hide their pig from Rebecca by concealing him – most ineffectually – under a grossly insufficient length of tablecloth, to say many parting words to their eldest sisters; excepting John, who was preoccupied, having been charged by their mother with the thankless task of trying to get Betsey to come downstairs.</p><p>For Betsey would not be persuaded, by anything at all, to leave what was now her own room and see her sisters off.</p><p>Mr. Price clapped Tom on the back and gave Edmund a nod that was not nearly so disagreeable as the looks he had granted him in the past, and he did tell Fanny she might give her coarse old father a hug goodbye if she liked – which she did, more from duty than anything else – before reminding Susan to behave respectably at Mansfield Park and not get herself sent back in disgrace.</p><p>Mrs. Price had a few shed tears and kisses to spare for her girls, after all, greatly to their mutual surprise, but most of her remarks ended in a variation of, "Whatever <em>can</em> be keeping darling Betsey? She's been so terrible cross all day, poor love. She'll miss you both dreadfully, to be sure." And once, with a little aggravated sigh, she said, voice fairly <em>dripping</em> with reproach, "Susan, you might have left her that silver knife – she is so terrible fond of it. What need had to you take it among your things? They will have many fine silver knives at Mansfield, I am sure. You should, perhaps, learn to think of others, especially those you leave behind, now that you will be in fine society."</p><p>"Mother, Betsey hasn't cared a wit for my knife in months now – not since Tom began bringing her presents – and you know Mary left it to <em>me</em>."</p><p>Mrs. Price seemed not to hear – or she pretended as much.</p><p>And, after a pause, their mother – for want of anything else to say, as Betsey still had not come down and could no longer be waited for – changed the subject to Fanny's marriage and how mercifully good a match it had turned out to be if she did say so, and how she didn't dare hope Susan would be half so lucky but it was very thoughtful of them to find her a place all the same.</p><p>In response to this statement from his wife Mr. Price repeated his admonition that Susan behave, then – complaining of his flaring gout again – adjourned into the hectic house with little parting ceremony, unless you counted a hacking cough and several – rather strong – curse words directed at the sons who got in his way.</p><p>There had, in all honesty, been more feeling in their parting from <em>Mr. Yates</em> – especially on Tom's end, since some part of him was always just that little bit sorry to leave behind any agreeable companion – than there had been in parting from the Prices.</p><p>All four of them – Edmund, Susan, Fanny, and Tom – were glad enough to climb into the carriage at last, their things secured and the Price family no longer watching them from the doorway, returned to their own more pressing occupations.</p><p>And despite Tom's longing for another week alone with Fanny, he too – along with the others – was never in higher spirits at passing the barriers of Portsmouth.</p><p>The driver made a brief detour through London, and they might have – in spite of their eagerness for the journey over and done with – stayed the night if the cousin of an old nanny of Edmund and Tom's had been as willing to put them up as was initially expected and if a horse which was suspected of having a stone in his hoof had sustained any real strain or damage after all, but their stop was, instead, brief.</p><p>Nanny's cousin was a saddler who knew a great deal about horses; it only took a brief conference – in low, polite whispers between driver and saddler – to settle that the horse was indeed uninjured and would be perfectly all right to carry on to Mansfield Park, as well as the fact that there were no rooms to be spared in the saddler's home for so large a party. Just the Bertram brothers travelling alone might have been all right – they might have shared the bed in the guest room – but they hadn't any place to put up <em>ladies </em>at the moment.</p><p>And Edmund especially was glad of it. He had not anticipated the detour, though it was, admittedly, a logical one. Alas, he feared too long an unplanned layover in London might prove a wicked temptation to Tom. Even the most loyal soldier can desert in the course of a single night, should the lure glitter brightly enough. He had been on the verge of openly praying for a miracle, noticing – as perhaps even Fanny hadn't – how very <em>twitchy</em> Tom appeared when the carriage rolled to a stop. So naturally the younger brother of he who was most likely to be dragged in and corrupted by the gleam of London – he who was the most susceptible prey of the group – proved pleased beyond expression when they found themselves off the cobblestones and headed towards more open, handsomer country.</p><p>It was only Susan who could manage to really smile and for the upward curling of her lips to reflect within the expression of her eyes in the form of true, visible happiness. And understandably so. It was she who had the least to be fearful of upon arriving at Mansfield Park. She was a guest, invited – even if Fanny's welcome did not count for much yet, by Tom – and she was nobody's wife or daughter-in-law. No one had anything to be angry with her about, if matters proved unfavourable. She was, of course, more than a little worried for Fanny's sake, but she convinced herself Tom – good-hearted Mr. Bertram – would have taken care of everything within reason – or <em>tried</em> to convince herself of such – and she herself had never been away from home before, not for a single day, and could not help being thrilled by the novelty.</p><p>There was not much conversation. They sat quietly, each lost in their own private speculation. Susan tried to speak to the driver, once, when they were stopped to water the horses, and her words were personable and friendly, but the poor man seemed flummoxed and uncomfortable, and a small shake of the head from Edmund signalled to her that guests of Mansfield Park did not generally converse casually with the servants. They spoke to them only when they needed something. And, a high-born lady she might not be, but sister to Mrs. Bertram and respected guest she certainly <em>was</em> now.</p><p>Fanny was saved from making the same error herself simply because she was too <em>shy</em>, in addition to being too nervous. Several times, she had<em> thought</em> of speaking to the driver, of attempting to befriend him, for she was fearful of being believed rude by anyone from Mansfield, her own future home, regardless of what position they held, but was held back by her own timidity. And when she saw Edmund's reaction to Susan, she understood she needn't make the attempt after all.</p><p>A single night was spent at a small inn situated in the countryside, where the four of them shared a long, creaky room made up with three beds. Come the following day, they would not have far to go before they were at Mansfield Park.</p><p>Susan slept well – dreaming, it seemed, of her new life, of napkins and silver and the smell of grass instead of the pungent scent of the sea at low tide – breathing softly in and out, tossing and turning very little.</p><p>Edmund's sleep was more fitful, but Fanny was sure – after a while – that it was deep enough only herself and Tom were left behind in the world of conscious thought, and she whispered, to her husband, "What if they don't like me?"</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>," he sighed, rolling over in the bed and touching her cheek affectionately with his curled knuckles, "if they don't like you, then they'd have to be the very <em>stupidest</em> sort of parents in the world. Now, I may not be as bookishly clever as Edmund, but I'd like to think I'm a fair judge of my own parents' intellect. They're not that stupid. Even my mother, who hasn't said anything worthy of giving pause in twenty years, has more sense – a great deal more, if I'm not mistaken. Stop worrying. However cross they are, it'll pass as soon as they see I've brought home an angel."</p><p>Fanny smiled faintly. "You've called me an angel before, you know."</p><p>"<em>Have</em> I?" His brow lifted partway.</p><p>"Well, you said I had the beauty of one, anyway." She blushed in the dark. "You were drunk."</p><p>"Ah."</p><p>"They may not want me, you know, all the same." They might very well think her more <em>mouse</em> than<em> angel</em>, and she could not blame them if such should prove to be the case.</p><p>Grunting, Tom sat up and lit a candle, reaching for the small curved holder with one hand and taking hers with the other. "Come on. Up you get, creepmouse."</p><p>"Where are we going?" whispered Fanny.</p><p>"Just across the room – shh, be quiet, or you'll wake our brother and sister."</p><p>She padded barefoot across the creaky, somewhat jagged floor of the room, Tom tugging her forward. He motioned to a map of the British Isles on the far wall, apparently in place for decoration – it was faded and brown, stained about the torn edges, and some of the names were not current. "Look."</p><p>"At what?"</p><p>"The <em>map</em>." By flickering candlelight, she saw him roll his eyes. "I should think even you know a map when you see one."</p><p>"But why?"</p><p>He ignored her question. "Point to something – <em>anywhere</em>."</p><p>She pointed.</p><p>He leaned forward, raised the candle, and squinted. "Derbyshire, I think."</p><p>"<em>Derbyshire</em>?" she echoed so quietly as to nearly be inaudible.</p><p>"That's where we'll go," Tom told her, grinning, "if – for some strange reason – my parents don't like you. We'll run away to Derbyshire and live among the cows – or whatever it is they have there." He was fairly certain about the cows. "I freely admit, Fanny, I'd really hoped your pointing finger would select some place a <em>bit</em> more exciting, but Derbyshire it is, I suppose."</p><p>"You're teasing me," said Fanny.</p><p>"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not – one day, however, I'll take you there, since you picked it out, on my honour; even if it's only on holiday."</p><p>"We're to spend a holiday <em>looking at cows</em>?"</p><p>"Hmm." He gave a grim little nod. "It would seem so." A pause – and, then, "I don't suppose they <em>race</em> them for wagers – do you? The cows, I mean. Rather too cumbersome and bumbling, I shouldn't wonder."</p><hr/><p>They were all half-dosing when the carriage finally came within sight of Mansfield Park.</p><p>Susan jolted fully awake first, leaning out the window, and exclaimed, "It's <em>beautiful</em>! I could not have<em> imagined</em> anything so very beautiful!"</p><p>Tom seemed pleased by his sister-in-law's approval of his future property; Edmund remained grave in countenance; Fanny intertwined her fingers together, wringing her trembling hands before dropping them into her lap.</p><p>As the carriage pulled up in front of the sprawling big house, Fanny brought her thumbnail to her mouth and bit down.</p><p>Edmund noticed. "Fanny," he sighed, "<em>don't </em>– don't do that – you're sure to spoil your nails that way, and it's a most unsightly habit."</p><p>"Don't tell my wife what to do," snapped Tom, glowering across the length of the carriage seats at his brother. "The future mistress of Mansfield Park can bite her nails down to nothing at all if she so wishes. The opinion of a self-satisfied, busy-body parson from Thornton Lacey should have no weight in her choices."</p><p>But Fanny did not chew her nails any longer – not then, and not ever again that anybody ever saw; she took Edmund's words entirely to heart.</p><p>And not only Fanny, but Susan as well. On <em>her</em> end, however, it was not for any excessive platonic love for Edmund; she was suddenly very afraid of betraying some vulgarity before her wealthy relations and being sent back to Portsmouth in disgrace, and so she gave up chewing her fingernails on the spot.</p><p>"What, is Mother off the sofa?" exclaimed Tom, seeing not only his father standing outside with the servants waiting for him, but also Lady Bertram as well. "That's unexpected."</p><p>Edmund looked. "She seems in higher spirits than usual – how fortunate you are, Tom."</p><p>"What do you mean?" asked he, a little testily.</p><p>"I mean," he explained, "things always seem to turn out well for you, don't they? You bring a new bride home to Mansfield, after an underhanded secret marriage–"</p><p>"Which <em>you</em> performed, let us not forget," Tom interjected.</p><p>Edmund <em>glared</em>. "–and our mother is risen up all smiles and Father is the picture of amiability itself. No one else in the world so reckless as you would have your endless strokes of luck, depend upon it."</p><p>"If only such fortune would carry on into the racing season," Tom sighed wistfully. "My Francis is a damn fine horse – as I'm lead to believe – but I've got no guarantees of his winning just yet."</p><p>But Tom's alleged good fortune did not hold even for another twenty seconds; no sooner had he climbed out of the carriage (Edmund getting out and around on the other side), and reached back in to help Fanny, than the expressions on the faces of Sir Thomas Bertram and his utterly befuddled lady <em>changed</em>.</p><p>"<em>Both my sons</em>," Lady Bertram had begun happily; "I can't recall the last time you both..." She trailed off, seeing Fanny step down and a shadowed Susan peering from the open door of the carriage. "Oh! And who else?"</p><p>"Tom, you <em>promised</em>!" snarled Edmund, whirling on him. "You gave me your word you would write!"</p><p>"I <em>did</em>!" Tom hissed through his teeth.</p><p>"I-I <em>saw</em> it," Fanny whispered in low defence, her voice cracking. "He did write. I saw the letter."</p><p>The only explanation was that the missive had gone astray somewhere and had not reached Sir Thomas in time. The only recent letter they'd gotten, it would seem, had been Edmund's, asking for the carriage. They'd plainly expected <em>only</em> the arrival of their two sons – they had not been in expectation of a daughter-in-law.</p><p>"Tom, who is this?" Sir Thomas' brow furrowed in Fanny's direction.</p><p>"Well..." He straightened his waistcoat and cleared his throat. "Here goes nothing, then." He affected an over-wide smile bordering on the theatrical and motioned to Fanny. "Father, Mother..." He waved at the servants. "Eh, staff... This is my wife."</p><p>"Your w-wife?" said Lady Bertram in a shaky, uncertain voice. "But Pug's litter isn't due quite yet, my dear... You know I meant to give your bride a puppy when you married. You would have done much better to consult me first – I haven't a puppy for her just now. You ought to have been married in a couple of months. Yes, that should have done very nicely indeed."</p><p>The lines around Sir Thomas' mouth tightened; he glanced from Fanny to his own wife and saw what only an idiot could have missed. "You were in Portsmouth," he said, and it was not a question;<em> that</em> letter, at least, had reached home unencumbered. "This girl is one of my sister-in-law's children."</p><p>"What, one of dear Fanny's little ones?" gasped Mrs. Bertram. "Oh, I suppose I <em>must</em> write her now – it has been a very long estrangement. I hope she is not still out of temper with me. What do you think, Sir Thomas? Must I write her? Should it be a very long letter, do you think? Writing does <em>fatigue</em> me so."</p><p>Edmund's cheeks coloured and he lowered his gaze, perhaps ashamed of his own part in all this, but Tom stared directly at their father as if <em>daring</em> him to make a great fuss over it.</p><p>Fanny bobbed a nervous curtsy. "<em>Sir</em>." She wished she might call him <em>Uncle</em>, or even <em>Father</em>, as either expression once permitted would signify some small measure of familial warmth between them, but she did not dare.</p><p>He gave Fanny a curt (though not unkind) little nod, took note of the gold ring on her left hand and concluded from it this could not be a prank, could not be some manner of sick jest Tom inexplicably found amusing, then – turning his attention back to his son – looked at him as if he were contemplating hurling him off a very large bridge somewhere.</p><p>Susan came out next, unaided, hopping down in what the loudly crunching gravel under her feet refused to let be a discreet gesture, and Lady Bertram marvelled over her as well, repeating her question about whether or not Sir Thomas thought she ought to write her sister.</p><p>It is perhaps worth noting here that the servants – although they pretended not to be – were watching the scene unfold with all the fascination of viewing a play free of admittance charges. The groom and driver kept working with the horses, secure in seeing the rest of this unfold at least until the family went inside, and the maid-servants, in their little line up, were all in dreaded suspense of being set back to work out of earshot of the grand drama.</p><p>These captivated, sensation-hungry maid-servants did not think much of the new Mrs. Bertram's clothes or her coarse-looking sister. If she was not already married to Tom, if she had been brought in as someone he simply <em>wished</em> to wed, they were quite certain their master would have packed the shaky girl right back up in the carriage had her driven home to Portsmouth posthaste – relation of his wife or no.</p><p>"Have you <em>no</em> sense of shame?" growled Sir Thomas, broad fingers with creaking knuckles curling and uncurling at his sides.</p><p>"I do not understand you, Father," said Tom in reply, much too coolly. "Surely there can be no shame in setting right what you have neglected."</p><p>His eyes were stormy. "Do you accuse me of neglect?"</p><p>"<em>Accuse</em>?" Tom's mouth formed a sharp O of feigned surprise. "Accuse? No, I certainly cannot do <em>that</em>. Who accuses anybody of something of which there can be no doubt? To accuse you, Father, would be to assume there was some chance you might defend yourself – might carry some explanation that would put all to rights. With all due respect, sir, you cannot deny you did nothing at all for the Prices. So now<em> I</em> have." He sucked his teeth. "One might even say I paid off your debt to them. Only in a manner of speaking, of course."</p><p>"<em>Tom</em>!" Edmund hissed in warning.</p><p>Fanny felt <em>cold</em>, despite the relative warmth of the day and the fact that they were standing in the sunshine. She couldn't remember ever feeling so cold, so bitterly unloved and pawn-like, in the whole of her life.</p><p>"You should not speak anything so improper to your father, my sweet Tom, though I know you cannot mean it," said Lady Bertram, her voice quavering. "Sir Thomas does not like it."</p><p>"We will continue this discussion <em>inside</em>," said Sir Thomas, icily, adding in a more neutral voice, to the housekeeper, "We will want tea at the usual hour – there is no cause here so alarming as to let standards drop – but we'll take it in the drawing-room."</p><p>"Yes, sir, of course." The housekeeper bobbed and began clapping her hands at the gawking maid-servants to regain their attention.</p><p>The show, for <em>them</em> at least, was quite over.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Familial Discord, Such As It Always Is</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Fourteen:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Familial Discord, Such As It Always Is</em>
</p><p>"Do you remember when you were a small boy?" Sir Thomas asked, his stern gaze on his eldest son strangely glassy despite its intensity. "You used to play Tom the Knight – you'd ask for a mission – and I'd send you off with a message for your mother, or on some other small errand, such as ordering the driver to ready the horses and carriage" – here, Tom made some small noise, as if embarrassed by this impromptu visit along memory lane, especially as it was in earshot of Fanny, who was seated on the sofa with his mother and Susan – "you always said, 'no, father, give me a noble mission, I'm playing at being a knight, not a servant'."</p><p>Pressing her fingertips into the upholstery until they felt sore, Fanny clenched the arm of the sofa, her light eyes darting between the three standing Bertram men and the tranquilly sitting Lady Bertram – her aunt – seeking some comfort and finding none. Beside her, Susan sighed and removed her bonnet and shifted upon the edge of the sofa cushion, looking askance at the fat pug in Lady Bertram's lap.</p><p>Sir Thomas continued, "Whatever became of that boy? That boy who always wanted to do things <em>right</em>, to be noble? Who liked nothing better? What you've done..." He pressed his hand to his mouth, then slowly lowered it. "This, what you've done, is <em>ignoble</em>, Tom."</p><p>"Ignoble?" exclaimed Tom. "How can you call something as natural as <em>marriage</em> ignoble?"</p><p>His father breathed heavily through his nose, struggling to keep his composure.</p><p>Her eyes lidded, Lady Bertram murmured, "You did not go about it <em>properly</em>, my dear – that is what Sir Thomas means. There ought to have been a line about it in the papers, I think, that is the proper way of it, and there was decidedly not."</p><p>"You did not do this," Sir Thomas growled through his teeth, "because you were in a great hurry to be married, Tom – you did this to punish me. I'm not a fool."</p><p>"Father," began Edmund, shakily.</p><p>"<em>You</em>," snapped Sir Thomas, barely glancing at him. "I will talk to <em>you</em> later. Do not presume to speak to me as the voice of reason now. You were not innocent in this."</p><p>The tea-things were brought in and set up to satisfaction, but they remained untouched by the men, and the maid-servant carrying in the tray was dismissed once Sir Thomas very vocally decided his niece Susan could – unless she were a great deal dimmer than she looked – hand a teacup and saucer with sugar to Lady Bertram as easily as any of the staff might have done.</p><p>Fanny was greatly relieved he had not selected <em>her</em> for that task; her hands were trembling too violently to hold anything containing hot liquid without causing an incident.</p><p>Susan poured the tea, although she had never handled fine china in her life, and managed to hand it to her aunt intact, despite her fear of accidentally spilling a little tea on the high-strung pug Lady Bertram would not remove from her lap even to eat and drink.</p><p>"Oh, thank you." Lady Bertram seemed mildly impressed. "You are so handy, child. I did not have long to wait at all between the tea-things being placed down at the teacup being given me. What is your name again?"</p><p>"Susan," she told her, colouring slightly. "<em>Susie</em>."</p><p>Fanny said nothing until Lady Bertram asked her if she would take a gooseberry tart, since she appeared ghostly white about the face, as if she might faint. She took one from the tray to avoid argument and to satisfy her aunt, but she did little more than nibble at its crust. It might have been a very fine pastry indeed, but it tasted of nothing in particular at the moment.</p><p>"Father, whatever you think of my actions," Tom said, "I can assure you this was a love match – I did not simply select the first girl I thought would provoke your ire. Even I have <em>standards</em>, sir."</p><p>"Don't be absurd," Sir Thomas snapped. "D'you suppose I don't know you well enough to be aware you'd never look to anything – be it a woman, an occupation, or so much as the purchasing of another of your damnable racing horses – without a view to provoking me? You may very well <em>have</em> convinced yourself you fancy the girl" – his eyes shifted from Tom to Fanny – "she's a pretty thing, and her complexion is well enough, but you'd never have looked to her with a view to any connection if the idea of humiliating this family had not entered your mind upon an earlier meeting. Confess it, Tom! You do yourself no favours in concealing your true nature. You did not love her half so well before you learned she was a relation I'd never mentioned in your hearing!"</p><p>"It can hardly matter <em>now</em>, either way," Tom retorted coolly, giving a maddening, fluttering little blink. "Can it?"</p><p>Sir Thomas sucked his teeth and began to pace the length of the drawing-room. "I am ashamed of you."</p><p>"The feeling, Father, I assure you, is mutual."</p><p>Edmund glared and shook his head at his brother, but was ignored.</p><p>"Tell me," said Sir Thomas, after a long pause, stopping in his tracks, "is there any reason this marriage might yet be dissolved? Any part of this union that may as yet be mercifully incomplete? Any grounds upon which–"</p><p>"Oh, <em>no</em>," Tom assured him, quite ardently, all bright grins and sparkling eyes, "that ship has sailed, I'm afraid."</p><p>"There's no need to look so <em>smug</em> about it, Tom," hissed Edmund.</p><p>Fanny's face flushed a brilliant, vivid <em>crimson</em> and she choked on the sparse crumbs of gooseberry tart already in her throat, setting the pastry down in hurry and turning her head away. There were altogether too many eyes in this enormous room.</p><p>"Lord preserve us from the folly of foolish children," muttered Sir Thomas. "Cousins in love, <em>indeed</em>!"</p><p>Tom crossed his arms. "It would appear, Father, as nothing can be done, there can be no further discussion. You will have to accept that my choice of wife – Fanny, your neglected niece – shall one day be Mistress of Mansfield Park – and we must both let bygones be bygones."</p><p>"I could always disinherit you," said Sir Thomas, very quietly.</p><p>"Sir, we both know you wouldn't – not over<em> this</em>."</p><p>"No, you're right, Tom – I would not take away your birthright over this, given – when I really think on it – it is only any extension of inconsiderate behaviour you've displayed in the past, rather than anything new." His eyes glittered coldly. "But I will not reward you for your lack of discretion, either. You imagine your life here, at Mansfield with your wife, will be entirely to your liking and choosing. You imagine luxury and pleasure only. You fancy you will occupy your hours however you like best, smirking at your poor, stupid father and thinking how clever you were to get the better of him."</p><p>"I think nothing of the sort!<em> Indeed</em>, I–" began Tom, in vain.</p><p>"You are to be occupied, daily – I will have tasks for you by the hour, filling up near every moment of your time, spare or otherwise."</p><p>"Sir–" The colour was beginning to drain from Tom's face.</p><p>"There is the seasonal hunting, which by way of duties you have always been asked to partake in, of course, but I won't have you idle until September. It's high time you made yourself useful in other tasks – time you learned what you will need to know when you are master here."</p><p>"There is no hurry for me to learn such–"</p><p>"If you are old enough to be married, and to select your wife with no thought to pleasing your family, you are old enough to be useful. Your life since returning from Antigua has been one long party – such flippant merrymaking ends<em> today</em>. You will be taught, however much you might struggle against it, to live for others besides yourself. No more indulgences, for – upon my word – you shall no longer <em>be</em> indulged under this roof until you've gained some inkling of sense."</p><p>Tom's shoulders dropped several inches. He was less brazen now. He was displeased, but perhaps he still held out some hope of being let off from his father's metaphorical shackles every now and again, fairly sure he could soften Sir Thomas considerably before the next racing season started up if he but played along for a time, and – more to his credit than not – he might have, at least in that well-intentioned moment, judged having <em>Fanny</em> to be worth the sacrifice.</p><p>But then Sir Thomas continued, "As my niece and your wife cannot be sent back to Portsmouth – and as you've seen to it that I cannot undo your actions – they will naturally remain here."</p><p>"<em>Naturally</em>," said Tom.</p><p>His father's eyes narrowed at the interruption. "I would not put my own relations out onto the street to fend for themselves, regardless of what you may think me capable of if not backed into a corner by your interference."</p><p>"That's very good of you, Father," Tom added patronisingly.</p><p>"<em>Shut up</em>," mouthed Edmund, rather frantically, in his direction, sensing there must be more to this and that his elder brother was only digging himself in ever-deeper.</p><p>"The foremost attic-room will do well enough for Susan and Fanny to sleep in, and we might give them the old school-room – none of you are at an age to have any further practical need of it, and Miss Lee no longer lives with us – for a private parlour. They may not always wish to hold conference in the drawing-room with myself and your mother present."</p><p>There was a creased furrow puckering between Tom's eyebrows, which were coming more and more near together and sinking lower as he tried to work out his father's meaning. "Yes, of course, the school-room will do well for Susan – for Miss <em>Price</em>."</p><p>"I <em>said</em>," insisted Sir Thomas, so as there could be no mistake, "Susan <em>and</em> Fanny."</p><p>"Fanny is <em>Mrs. Bertram</em>!" exclaimed Tom, taking a step forward. "She will be staying with <em>me</em>. Miss Price can stay wherever you see fit to put her – she's here as a gift for Mother, a sort of companion, and of course, secondly, because she is my wife's sister. I have no wish to interfere with however it is you wish to house that manner of guest. But <em>Mrs. Bertram</em>–"</p><p>"She is<em> Mrs. Bertram</em> in name – in legality – but she is not mistress of this house yet, no more than you are its master!" thundered Sir Thomas. "You will not father an heir of your own under this roof until you have more right to it." He sucked his teeth and rolled back his shoulders. "We may revisit the subject of rooming-arrangements when you have proven yourself more responsible. For the time being, Fanny will live with her sister in the attic-room. That is my final word on the matter."</p><p>"That's not <em>fair</em>." Tom was quite beside himself. "With all the duties you will insist upon my taking on, I will hardly ever get to see my own wife! At least if we shared a room I'd be with her at night."</p><p>"<em>Father</em>," tried Edmund, thinking – in this one instance – that perhaps their father was being a trifle harsh; splitting up a married couple, despite understandable reasons, was hardly the best recipe for familial happiness. It could only breed further resentments, and would hardly encourage Tom to stick around should the world at large offer him a way out. Why, the very first tentative invitation from friends in Weymouth would mislead a man such as Tom who did not think he had any reason to stay! Edmund feared greatly for Fanny's future comfort here at Mansfield, in that case. "Perhaps, if Tom were to–"</p><p>He was silenced, however, by a single look, and dropped his gaze to the floor.</p><p>This was all beginning to be a bit much for Fanny. She, unlike Tom, respected Sir Thomas' decision – it was his home, after all, and his son had failed, despite his efforts through the letter which had gone astray, to inform him of their marriage – though she did not care for it and had not anticipated it, but at the same time was feeling less and less like a cherished wife and more and more like a poor relation.</p><p>She could endure <em>Sir Thomas Bertram</em> making her feel thusly, but <em>Tom</em> was nearly as bad.</p><p>No fool, she had suspected and long come to terms with the notion that Tom had wanted to marry her – at least partly, and at first – due to a sense of rebellion. She was not the sort of wife he'd been expected to take, which doubtless made her more appealing to him. Still, she had not imagined how <em>deep </em>that sense of rebellion went – she had not fancied she would be so <em>very much</em> a weapon wielded against his father.</p><p>Edmund had warned her, in his way, of course, regarding the rivalry between father and eldest son at Mansfield Park, and she'd said she understood – and she'd believed, <em>truly</em>, that she <em>did</em>...</p><p>And yet...</p><p>How could a single person go from being the adoring, doting creature Tom had been back in Portsmouth – and even on the journey here – to a sullen man demanding his rights, using what he'd previously acted as though was so precious, so sacred, to him only to further his own point?</p><p>
  <em>No one who grew up in the same house with him and has ever seen him throw one of his ungodly tantrums could suppose it genuine.</em>
</p><p>Yes, Edmund had warned her about this, too, tried to prevent her from making a dreadful mistake.</p><p>But what other option had she <em>had</em>, really? To give Tom up, when, despite her senses being against the match, she did truly <em>love</em> him? To live a life, trapped in Portsmouth, her own mother knew would do her in eventually?</p><p>And, at the thought of her mother back home, upon remembering her brothers and other sisters (the one living and the one dead), Fanny suddenly saw herself, as if she were floating above the sofa upon which she was seated, looking down objectively apart from her own being, to be very coarse and pallid and uneducated and and unattractively diminutive, and she burst into tears.</p><p>"D'you <em>see</em>, Father?" cried Tom, rushing over to the sofa. "You've made her <em>cry</em>."</p><p>Fanny shook her head. <em>No,</em> she wanted to say, <em>it's not... It's nothing Sir Thomas has said. I'm simply feeling unwell. And missing my mother – my Mama back home in Portsmouth – quite unexpectedly. </em>But the words would not form, would not bubble forth from her aching throat.</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>?" Susan said gently with quiet concern.</p><p>Tom was kneeling in front of the sofa now and rubbing the back of her shaking hands affectionately with his thumbs, but she could – right then – feel no comfort from the gesture, however kindly meant.</p><p>"I daresay the journey has wearied her, poor duck," concluded Lady Bertram, blinking at the poor mousy creature beside Susan who was – at that moment – all trailing tears and raw puffiness. "Yes, it must be that, to be sure. Have the servants brought her things upstairs yet? She might go to her room and rest for a while – she's bound to feel restored by supper, I am certain of it. <em>Pug</em> rests on the pillows very nicely, when there has been a stomach upset or teasing scare, and is always well again by the next mealtime."</p><hr/><p>Supper was a tense meal, taken in silence save for the noise of spoons clinking and china plates being cleared and replaced.</p><p>It was a meal unlike anything Susan or Fanny had ever experienced before in their lives. Nobody grabbed for anything; indeed, nobody <em>asked</em> for anything. The servants seemed to know exactly what and when to bring out and place before those gathered at the table.</p><p>There was a sharp-looking silver bell, at the far end of the table where none of them sat, which Susan noticed no one lifted to ring and asked about. Edmund explained it was for their Aunt Norris, who always said the servants did not hear her when she had need of making a rare request – because her voice was too soft and unimposing (and here he could not bring himself to look serious, too aware in relating this that if <em>Mrs. Norris</em> was 'unimposing', the word could not possibly mean what everybody else in the world believed it to) – whenever she dined with them.</p><p>This was not a fancy supper by the standards of the Bertram household, but there was still more than one course, which amazed both sisters utterly.</p><p>"<em>Usually</em>," said Edmund, leaning forward to speak to the two baffled ladies, "supper would be a somewhat lighter affair – soup and one dish of meat and vegetables – dessert if there is company, though most sweets are consumed at tea. As today's tea was somewhat muted in nature, the cook has seen fit to make up the difference. No one goes hungry here, unless it's by choice."</p><p>Susan smiled.</p><p>Fanny tried to smile as well, but her hesitant gaze shifted from the rows of forks and spoons set beside her plate over to Tom, who said nothing, too busy gulping down his second glass of wine – then signalling the nearest servant to refill it immediately – and ignoring the food on his own plate. She found, then, she had no more smiles to spare – not even for Edmund.</p><p>"Fanny, you know more about this than me – what do I <em>do</em>?" Susan whispered urgently under her breath, tapping her sister's wrist and motioning to the forks in front of her.</p><p>But she could only gnaw at her quivering bottom lip and look helpless.</p><p>Sir Thomas gave her an arched look, yet made no motion to help. Lady Bertram appeared slightly more aware and alert than usual, and she glanced at Susan with what might have been a glimmer of pity, but she did not help her either.</p><p>Sighing, as he saw nothing else for it, Edmund began rhapsodising on the <em>remarkable</em> order of silverware. As if in self-reflected marvelling, he made light, enthusiastic statements about the order of each utensil set before them that night and motioned to each one in turn.</p><p>Susan did not catch on to his meaning at first, gawking at him in puzzlement, but Fanny immediately worked out what her dearest cousin was doing and – grateful beyond words – fell into copying his deliberately elongated and exaggerated statements with her hands, taking up each piece of silverware in the correct order based on his casual reflections. Soon, Susan copied her sister so that they were both managing quite well. If they were clumsy, they still performed passively well for Portsmouth-bred girls who had never eaten at such a table before.</p><p>Lady Bertram gave her younger son a tiny approving smile from the corner of her mouth before pulling out her chair and looking about her feet for Pug.</p><p>"<em>Edmund</em>," said Sir Thomas, with a cough, when there was at last a pause, "as there will be no seafood course tonight, you <em>might</em> spare us your deep reflections upon the beauty of a fish-knife. If you would be so very obliging, that is. My head aches most dreadfully and I'd like to finish my supper in peace."</p><p>"Yes, Father."</p><p>"<em>Yes, Father</em>," mocked Tom, rather nasally, bringing his wineglass to his lips again. "That's what you sound like, Edmund."</p><p>Edmund inhaled sharply and tossed his napkin down onto the table beside his half-empty plate. "That is your <em>third</em> glass of wine tonight, brother?"</p><p>"Mind your own business!"</p><p>"Oh, yes – as <em>you've</em> been doing all evening?" He motioned to Fanny, the beloved Mrs. Bertram, who Tom had not said three words to since she'd come downstairs for supper, his great anxiety over her tears earlier surprisingly short-lived.</p><p>"I warn you, Edmund" – Tom <em>glowered</em> – "I am in a foul mood – do<em> not</em> attempt to provoke me."</p><p>"I believe I <em>said</em>," growled Sir Thomas, "I wished to finish supper in peace, did I not? The next one of you ungrateful, ill-mannered <em>boys</em> to speak until I rise from this table and retire to my chambers will sleep in the stables."</p><p>Edmund and Tom exchanged cross looks, laden with blame and mutual ill-humour on both sides; Fanny and Susan stared down at their plates.</p><hr/><p>"Sir Thomas Bertram has used us very ill," grumbled Susan as she undressed for bed.</p><p>"Do you think so?" said Fanny, quietly. "It <em>is</em> his house, after all. And today came as quite a shock for him – he did not receive Tom's letter."</p><p>"<em>Still</em>," said Susan, a little breathlessly, pulling a cotton shift over her head. "To treat you as if you were yet a Miss Price as I am and not a Mrs. Bertram! To stick you in this tiny attic-room!"</p><p>"You should not speak so ill of him, Susie," insisted Fanny, shaking her head. "It isn't right. This one room is so much finer than anything we had in Portsmouth – there can be no comparison. And the servants have fixed us a good fire, and we've eaten well. You must remember, it is not Tom's house for him to decide otherwise, not yet."</p><p>"Oh,<em> Tom</em>!" she burst out, next, unable to hold it in any longer. "I could begin on him as well! What was <em>he</em> playing at today? He spoke so coldly of us both – for all his quarrelling with his father, claiming it was a love-match between the two of you, his other words said outside the carriage and in the drawing-room don't do his pretty claims the least justice! – calling<em> me</em> a <em>gift for his mother</em> and acting as if marrying you was some sort of great <em>favour</em>..."</p><p>"Susie, please, <em>stop</em>." Fanny looked at her sister imploringly. "I cannot bear such talk tonight. I wish to defend my husband's character, as I ought" – however keenly the hurt was <em>felt </em>– "but I am so very tired – please do not press me to take up any side, even my own. I cannot bear it."</p><p>"Our Uncle Bertram might have given us <em>two</em> beds," Susan sighed, letting Tom off the hook for the time being. "You can't disagree on that much, or think me ungrateful for wishing you were given that consideration."</p><p>Perhaps that was true enough, but the fine mattress shadowed by the towering iron-wrought headboard and with elegant claw-feet at the base was certainly large enough for any pair of sisters used to sharing much more cramped and pinched accommodations – there was no meanness on that account. Fanny pointed this out meekly, and Susan nodded, though clearly unconvinced. For herself, it was all very well. If alone here, she would be thinking how very kind Sir Thomas was to give her such a room and marvelling over the beauty of the view from the little window, but what she perceived to be a clear, unmistakable slight to <em>Fanny</em> she could not ignore, could not wholly pardon even at Fanny's own urging. That terrible moment when Sir Thomas had so heartlessly suggested the possible dissolving of Fanny's marriage! No, Susan could not forgive him for that. He was worse than Edmund had once been; but at least, then, when <em>Edmund</em> wished to split them up, Tom and Fanny were not yet wedded. Allowances could be, and in Susan's mind <em>had been</em>, made. She could pardon Edmund by comparison to his father, as well as in light of the service he'd rendered them both at supper.</p><p>Pulling back the covers and (after gaining a clumsy grip of the wobbly handle) moving the brass bed-warmer to the middle of the bed so she could climb in on her side, Susan uttered the one remark she was sure Fanny would not be disheartened by. "<em>Edmund</em> behaved lovely. It was very good of him to help us at supper."</p><p>Fanny gave her a grateful little smile and admitted, voicing – as much as she ever would permit herself to – her pained doubts towards Tom at the moment, "I think Edmund may be my only true friend here at Mansfield – apart from <em>you</em>, of course, Susie." She wrapped an old faded shawl over her nightdress from home and wandered over to the fireplace, reaching for the poker to stoke the lowering flames.</p><p>"We are lucky to have him, after all," said Susan; "I hope he never goes back to his parish."</p><p>"<em>I </em>don't – I fear it would be unfair to his congregation," Fanny pointed out. "It's selfish to wish him always here just so we'd be assured of his taking our own part so he might ensure our comfort. But I understand; I'll miss him when he goes, too."</p><p>"Are you not coming to bed?"</p><p>"I'll stay by the fire a while." She set the poker down and eased into the wingback chair beside the fireplace. "I slept a little when I rested earlier."</p><p>Susan meant to remain awake, even as she was upon her new, soft pillow and warmed under the covers, until she felt the mattress give at her side and knew Fanny to be as cosy as herself, but her eyelids proved too heavy and the mattress too lacking in lumps (so unlike the one at home) and she was very quickly under the spell of a deep slumber.</p><p>Fanny was glad of her sister's departure from the conscious world. She could allow her face, at last, to look as grave as she felt. She could allow a few more tears to run quietly down her cheeks as she thought over the events of the day. Nothing would induce her to speak – or to truly think – ill of Sir Thomas, for he might have proven so much the worse, yet she was heartbroken at having gone from one family which had so little use for her on the whole, pleased enough to see her off, seemingly straight into another which endured her presence similarly.</p><p>In so wealthy a home, as a married woman rather than a ward or dependant, she might have nursed hopes of being less of an obligation to be fed and clothed, if nothing else. The reality, however, was proving rather the opposite. This was only something further she must endure. It was true Portsmouth had had no pleasures, but this place was far from being devoid of pains.</p><p>How very long she sat there, comparing the two places in her mind, wishing herself... Well, not back <em>home</em>, no, for<em> this</em> was her home now, and there was no love to be lost in leaving behind the evils of that former house, but certainly back in the inn, overlooking the harbour.</p><p>The clock struck half-past twelve in some distant hallway Fanny could not have located even if set in the correct direction initially and provided with several minutes' head-start.</p><p>Still, she judged it to be near, since she could hear it so clearly.</p><p>Perhaps it was from being too near the fire for so long, but her mouth felt very dry and she was exceedingly thirsty. She wasn't sure what the Bertrams did when they wanted a drink of water in the night – probably the servants knew their habits and brought them one at the usual hour, or they kept some in a pitcher on hand for just such an occasion – but neither of those were viable options for quenching her own thirst just now.</p><p>Surely there could be no evil in making one's way to down to the kitchen for a glass of water?</p><p>There was, of course, the fact that she did not know where the kitchen <em>was</em> and was also greatly alarmed at even the mere <em>notion</em> of being found wandering searching for it – seeming to be snooping around in the ungodly hours of the morning – only if she were very quick and decisive she might slip there and back unnoticed.</p><p>Steadying her agitated hands and gripping the corners of her shawl determinedly, Fanny rose from the chair and – with one look back at Susan to be sure her sister still slept well – crept from the room and began making her timid way down the attic stairs.</p><hr/><p>Tom Bertram heard <em>scuffling</em>.</p><p>It was not coming from the corridor directly outside of his chambers, but the one just beyond it – he might not have registered the sound during the day, when all was busy, but at this silent, witching hour it travelled shamelessly.</p><p>The tread and heavy breathing was too deep, too resounding, to be a mouse – at least the sort of mouse the house-maids set traps for, at any rate; he was out of bed and closing his own door behind himself the moment he realised it might be a much more welcome manner of <em>creepmouse</em>.</p><p>Knowing the layout of his home as the 'mouse' did not, he was able to sneak up behind it and grasp it by the back of the arms. "Fanny, don't scream."</p><p>She managed not to, but only <em>just</em>. "Tom," she breathed, eyes wide and breath laboured with anxiety despite <em>his</em> finding her lost in the house decidedly being better than another member of the family doing so – at least she could console herself that <em>he</em> believed, whether or not she agreed with the reasoning behind such belief, she was entitled to do what she liked here and thus would not be out of sorts with her.</p><p>His mouth pressed itself close to her ear. "Were you looking for me, creepmouse?"</p><p>Fanny turned, whirling out of his grasp, and shook her head. "<em>Kitchen</em>."</p><p>"Come on." He took one of her hands and <em>tugged</em>. "With me."</p><p>She resisted for a moment, then thought the better of it and allowed herself to be taken along two corridors and into a new hallway she hadn't seen before.</p><p>"This isn't the kitchen," she managed, when they'd stopped before a large set of doors and they were flung open to reveal a spacious sitting room through which was visible a shadowed bed-chamber.</p><p>"Isn't it?" said Tom, brow lifted. "My mistake."</p><p>"Where <em>are</em> we?"</p><p>"My chambers."</p><p>"Tom..." She shrank back. "Your <em>father</em>."</p><p>He said, then, a few distinctly unflattering words in expressing his opinion of what Sir Thomas thought.</p><p>"I think I ought...that is..." She turned halfway and looked down the hall, into nothing familiar, reaching up and pushing back a cluster of blonde curls in some obvious distress. "I should go back to my room."</p><p>"<em>Susan's</em> room," he corrected stubbornly. "And you're more than welcome to go back and sleep there if you wish it, Fanny – no one is stopping you."</p><p>"I-I," she stammered, looking into his face again, hoping for some pity; "I don't know the <em>way</em>."</p><p>"How unfortunate for you."</p><p>"Tom, <em>please</em>."</p><p>"Look, if you <em>want </em>to wander the house all night until you find your way back, that's perfectly fine by me." He took her hand, lifted it, turned it over, and – bringing it to his mouth – kissed the inside of her wrist lingeringly. "<em>Or</em>..."</p><p>Fanny flushed scarlet, despite everything, and allowed herself to be drawn in.</p><p>
  <em>Or.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Closed Doors, Most Inconvenient</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Fifteen:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Closed Doors, Most Inconvenient</em>
</p><p>Tom's sitting room was ornate but cosy – it had been designed, plainly, without a mind to a woman's fancy, very old-fashioned and masculine in structure, yet where it lacked delicate elegance, it abounded in masterwork that was impressive without being unduly gaudy. Although it was difficult to make out some of the details in the firelight, Fanny was able to take in an estimation of a fine carved mantelpiece and silver and brass fixtures; the nearest chair-cushions were velvet in a colour that might have been red or purple but appeared black to her eyes at the moment.</p><p>Something <em>clink</em>ed behind her and she – starting – <em>whirled</em>, nearly twisting an ankle in the process.</p><p>The noise was revealed to be only Tom pouring a drink – some manner of mixed cordial – into a crystal glass, which he held out to her.</p><p>Thirsty, she took it gratefully and swallowed it down much more quickly than she otherwise would, but she did not feel particularly refreshed afterwards. The cordial might have warmed her a bit, perhaps enlivened her waning courage slightly, but it did little for the initial thirst which had driven her from the attic-room in the first place; Fanny thought she would have preferred that anticipated glass of water, and to have found her way back to Susan undiscovered by her keen-eared husband, after all.</p><p>She said nothing of the kind to <em>Tom</em>, however, not wishing to sound as if she were expressing an ingratitude.</p><p>As he took away her shawl and drew her to him, she <em>did</em> bring herself to murmur, in a tone barely audible, "I think, perhaps, we <em>shouldn't</em>...not now..." taking a step back; her calves were heated so, in being too near the fire from behind, that Fanny thought the back of her legs might become scorched. And, leaping forward with a throaty little yelp, throwing herself further into Tom's arms – as they tightened their grasp, clutching her passionately – she seemed to be asking for exactly the opposite, giving her hoarse, quavering words no weight with him. She seemed, in this moment at least, to possess no talent for certainty, and her hesitance suited Tom perfectly well.</p><p>His hand, which had been stroking the small of her back through the thin, well-worn cotton of her nightdress, removed itself and lifted upwards, chucking her lovingly under the chin. "Don't you trust me?"</p><p>Fanny <em>blinked</em> – she was put back in mind, so unexpectedly, of that day which felt so very long ago, when he'd first sketched her on Susan's suggestion. He had the same gauging look now as he had then, though it appeared slightly more imposing when shadowed by firelight than it had in the broad daylight of Portsmouth.</p><p>Why was it, she pondered, a touch bewilderedly, he so often seemed to equate warm intimacy with severe calculation?</p><p><em>Except</em>, such was the very <em>problem</em> – that which nearly damned him so irrevocably ultimately exonerated him in her eyes as well.</p><p>There<em> was</em> warmth, true warmth, in the same shameless stare even as it seemed to be sizing her up and deciding her worth. There was no malice, no intent behind the eyes telling of a desire to inflict harm or to use her for his own ends – only an insatiable longing to freely show his affection, albeit in what was often a decidedly selfish manner.</p><p>Whatever else he felt, whatever else he said, whoever else he dangled her in front of with vague intentions to provoke, he did love her still, and probably as much as he had before coming here.</p><p>Her poor heart was beating wildly – feeling like it might very well burst forth from her small chest – as his hand dropped back down again.</p><p>Fanny lifted her face to his and kissed him on the lips; she could feel his satisfied smile spreading under her mouth.</p><p>They broke apart – for what felt like several minutes but might really have been mere seconds – and Tom lifted her nightdress up, exposing her thighs and arse to a slight chill despite the fire at her back, enough so that she felt the faint prickle of rising goose pimples, then pulled it over her head, tossing it aside – she could not see <em>where</em>.</p><p>His own nightshirt he had off himself before she had time to decide whether she was too hot or else too cold, though certainly she was the victim of <em>some</em> unnamed discomfort in that regard.</p><p>Fanny watched him, with a mixture of pleasure and uncertainty, as he bent over and, one arm cradling the back of her trembling knees, scooped her up into his arms.</p><p>For whatever reason, she hadn't been expecting it, and – in her surprise – let out another yelp, a good deal louder than the first had been. Eyes wide, she bit down heavily onto her lower lip to muffle herself.</p><p>Tom laughed. "There's no need for such reserve – I highly doubt anyone can hear us."</p><p>Fanny's brow crinkled. Had<em> he</em> not heard her skulking about and led her here into his chambers? If he could hear her, being as quiet as possible, surely the others could her her squealing like a startled banshee...?</p><p>Then she <em>realised</em>, and felt a bit foolish. This wasn't like her family's house in Portsmouth, with thin walls and everybody in the next room over from one another; here, in the big house at Mansfield Park, unless someone had deliberate <em>cause</em> to be in the same relatively nearby corridor Tom had discovered her wandering, which was unlikely at this hour, when all the family were in bed and all the servants were off-duty unless roused and summoned or else on some routine pre-dawn chore, they'd hear nothing at all.</p><p>After striding out of the sitting room still carrying her, Tom deposited Fanny onto the mattress of a large four-poster bed adorned with a thick canopy.</p><p>She scrambled under the extravagant silk coverlet and pulled it up almost to her chin.</p><p>Tom lifted the coverlet on the other end and eased in beside her with a gentle groan before pulling the canopy shut around them.</p><p>Fanny could see nothing at all now, only feel the give in the mattress that signified he was drawing closer; he was, after a pause which she might have supposed he spent gazing down at her if it weren't so pitch-black under the canopy, stroking her jawline with the back of the fingers on one hand.</p><p>She released a tentative grip she had on the blankets underneath and let the coverlet slide down a little ways as he began to kiss her again; his mouth seemed to be everywhere in the darkness – the tip of her nose, her lips, her throat, her collarbone. She turned her head on the pillow, still trying to look at him even though she was as good as <em>blind</em>.</p><p>His leg wrapped around hers; she was a great deal warmer and more comfortable, yet she could still feel the same tell-tale prickle of forming goose pimples.</p><p>She tensed without truly meaning to.</p><p>"It's only <em>us</em>, creepmouse – merely our merry, contented selves," he whispered into her ear, his breath warm against her cheek and smelling more than a little of drink. "Pray don't trouble your pretty head to think of anything else."</p><hr/><p>When Fanny awoke, still as warm and dozy as when she'd fallen asleep afterwards, her murky, muddled mind slowly coming back into its own, it took her a while to work out why she couldn't see anything and why she felt strangely confined, bound up like a swaddled babe.</p><p>
  <em>Tom's bed.</em>
</p><p><em>That</em> was where she was – under a drawn canopy that blocked out all lights and draughts.</p><p>Wriggling her arms free, she felt around for her husband, murmuring his name, patting and groping at the empty space beside herself – "Tom? <em>Tom</em>? Are you here?" – and finally concluded he was not.</p><p>Tom must have woken already – perhaps gone down to breakfast, or to begin those duties his father had mentioned the day before – and left her behind in the bed.</p><p>Apparently, he had tucked her in before doing so, which was why the blankets and coverlet were so tight.</p><p>The gesture was thoughtful, to be sure, and she smiled to imagine him going about it, but she would have preferred if, instead, he'd woken her early and escorted her back to the attic-room.</p><p>Because, alas, she still didn't know where in this huge house she <em>was</em> – she hadn't the foggiest notion which wing her husband's chambers were even located in, or how far she'd walked in her vain attempt to find the kitchen.</p><p>A guess could not be ventured; the night before was a blur of nerves and passion, of love and apprehension.</p><p>She could be <em>anywhere</em>.</p><p>Sitting up with some effort, the blankets still secured a little too snugly about her waist to permit easy upward movement, she rubbed at her bleary eyes with the back of her wrist and yawned.</p><p>Unable to locate the seam which might indicate a break in the canopy that would pull it open, Fanny settled on crawling out from under it as though it were a tent flap. She fervently hoped there would be no servants in the room – not simply because she did not wish to be caught in Tom's chambers after Sir Thomas had made himself quite clear about where she would sleep, but also because she hadn't any clothes on.</p><p>Her nightdress would be – <em>must</em> be – in the sitting room somewhere.</p><p>Her bare feet touched a soft rug beside the bed; the hardwood floor beyond it was a shock, going from warm to cold, that she felt all the way from her aching calves up to her sour stomach.</p><p>She had the rising desire to <em>retch</em>, and narrowly resisted it.</p><p>The sudden light was too bright after the nothingness of the canopy – she blinked rapidly, then darted her gaze both ways.</p><p>No servants. Nobody at all. Thank heavens.</p><p>She hurried into the sitting room and searched, with increasing anxiety, for her nightdress. Where had Tom tossed it last night? She checked behind the chairs and in front of the fireplace. All she was able to find was her shawl. She couldn't leave the room with only a shawl.</p><p>For an instant, she debated going through Tom's nearest wardrobe and dressing herself in whatever she found there – even if she should only discover hunting or riding gear, as such humiliating misfortune would appear to be her lot in life, then spotted Tom's dressing-gown carelessly left on the floor in front of the doorway.</p><p>It was not unlike seeing an old friend. She'd worn it enough times at the inn in Portsmouth; she could borrow it again now. At least she'd be <em>covered</em>. A breath of deep relief escaped her as she hurried to pull it over herself, slipping her arms through the familiar sleeves and fastening it closed at the front.</p><p>She was beginning to suspect all might be well, if only she could find her way back to the attic-room and change into something more appropriate before coming downstairs, thinking how it must surely – despite her lack of knowledge of where she was in this house – be easier to navigate in the daytime than it had been at night, slipping out into the hallway through one of the doors and closing it gently behind herself so as not to make any noise, when she heard a cross, shrill voice address her in a tone of unmistakable <em>horror</em>.</p><p>"And what, pray tell, do you call <em>this</em>?" demanded the scowling woman who – although a perfect stranger – seemed somehow familiar to Fanny. "What business are you about?"</p><p>She swallowed too quickly, taking in too much air at once, and could not bring herself to speak. Her arms tightened around the folded shawl she carried in her arms.</p><p>"Whatever <em>are</em> you hiding, shifting your arms away from me like that, girl?" The woman took a step forward. "Stealing something from my nephew's room, I expect?"</p><p>Fanny shook her head.</p><p><em>Nephew</em>, she realised, stomach plummeting,<em> she called Tom her </em>nephew<em> – this is our Aunt Norris</em>.</p><p>She did not look at all like her mother or the pretty Lady Bertram. It was hard to believe all three had been girls together in one family. She had the same light features, yes, but none of the softness. Fanny had supposed her own mother hardened, but<em> her</em> eyes were warm and nurturing compared to this woman's.</p><p>Although, perhaps, to be sure, Mrs. Norris was both prettier and nicer when she was not mistaken about the situation and made so very cross. She must be a great deal more pleasant and reasonable than she seemed, deep down, if Tom managed to have regard for her.</p><p>Then Fanny dismally recalled what Edmund had told her about this particular aunt – how Tom in fact did <em>not</em> like her very much save for when she flattered and praised, rather than take on his father's more severe approach to dealing with him, and how she had wanted to choose Tom's wife for him – and her hope dwindled, making it even harder to bring coherent words to her mouth.</p><p>Her lips trembled.</p><p>What was it she had said to Edmund, when he brought Aunt Norris up?</p><p>
  <em>I'm not going to be the most welcome thing in her life, then.</em>
</p><p>Such an <em>understatement</em> that seemed when faced with the woman before her in the flesh!</p><p>At last satisfied the pitifully worn-looking shawl was not a pilfered item from Tom's chambers after all, Mrs. Norris insisted again upon being told her business here at once. "Spit it out, girl – don't just stand there gawking guiltily as if you had..." Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh, <em>God</em>." She appeared to realise, only then, that Fanny was not properly attired. "I should have anticipated something like this happening someday. But of course neither of the boys has shown any inclination to bring women of ill repute into this house <em>before</em> – and, what with Edmund taking up the cloth and moving to Thornton Lacey, it seemed so unlikely... Oh, the <em>shame </em>– Tom, what <em>could</em> you be thinking of, doing such a thing <em>here</em>?"</p><p>Fanny's closed-off throat managed an indignant squeak. <em>I am his </em>wife<em>! Not...not one of those...not a...a...</em></p><p>But Mrs. Norris was no longer speaking to her, no longer expecting an answer – she was speaking only to herself, frantically, with no ear to anything or anyone else. "I must break the news to Sir Thomas as gently as possible – the shame must be... Well, it shall be hushed up. None of the servants will..." Her eyes were on Fanny once more – she'd snagged her arm and begun pulling her forcefully before she could shrink back. "<em>You</em>, you little... I will thank you to leave this house at <em>once</em>."</p><p>"But..." stammered Fanny, her voice hoarse. "<em>But</em>..."</p><p>"You shall <em>not</em> expect," Mrs. Norris went on, dragging her down the hallway and making a number of sharp turns until they (after coming down a staircase) were in the first room Fanny had seen when they'd entered the house yesterday, "to be paid any money from this family – and if you <em>dare</em> to breathe one word of this indiscretion to the papers, or to return with intent to blackmail the baronet, I will have the magistrate on you – see if I don't. You shall be writing to the papers from behind bars, if you try it, and no one will believe a word. You will find me most formidable."</p><p>The front doors were flung open and Fanny felt herself pushed forward.</p><p>"I'm not a..." she began, in a desperate breath, shivering and struggling.</p><p>"<em>Out</em>!" snapped Mrs. Norris, shoving harder. "Do not make a scene. Get out of this house and don't come back."</p><p>"<em>Mrs. Norris</em>," she tried, having only strength and time – she judged – enough for two words and being eager to make them something which should give her aunt pause.</p><p>Mrs. Norris was greatly distressed to hear her name from the strange girl's lips. "How dare <em>you</em> address <em>me</em>? You haven't any <em>right</em> – now, get out and stay out!"</p><p>The doors slammed shut, leaving Fanny outside on the cold front steps. She wondered that Mrs. Norris had deposited her here, out front, where she was so visible, when she might have dragged her to a more discreet door. But, in that case, a servant – going about their duties at this hour – might have seen the whole thing transpire; Mrs. Norris would have known if there was anyone expected near the front of the house until later.</p><p>Fanny tried knocking anyway, hoping to be let back in, though it did no <em>good</em> – no one heard her.</p><p>Her next idea was to peer through the nearest windows, tapping at the panes to get a servant's – <em>any </em>servant's – attention; the house-maids had sneered at her yesterday, they plainly did not <em>like</em> her, but they'd still know who she <em>was</em>, as Mrs. Norris had not, and they would certainly let her inside rather than risk upsetting Tom, their future master.</p><p>It was <em>freezing</em> and Tom's dressing-gown was not much of a buffer against the cold.</p><p>If only she could guess which part of the house the attic-room was in, she might be able to... To <em>what</em>, climb (or fly, as likely) up there and get her sister's attention?</p><p>She chided herself. She didn't need to climb – she was reasoning like a <em>fool</em>. If she could get hold of a little pebble, she could toss it up against the window and Susan would look to see what the noise had been and she'd <em>surely</em>...</p><p>Unless she picked the wrong window, also a likely outcome.</p><p>What if it should be <em>Mrs. Norris</em> whose attention she got and her aunt was even more angry at her for being a conniving harlot who threw things at the houses of baronets?</p><p>She might have her hauled off by the law before Tom even realised she was gone!</p><p>Sobering, unpleasant thought!</p><p>Still, it could give her another chance to explain, to tell her aunt she was <em>married</em> to Tom, not someone he'd smuggled into his room in the middle of the... Well, that was ironic, because – wife or no – she technically<em> was </em>someone who'd crept into Tom's room secretly last night when everyone was asleep.</p><p>She simply wasn't a... Not a...</p><p>Well, no matter; not <em>all</em> the doors, on<em> all</em> sides, could be locked.</p><p>She could not be barred out of the house <em>entirely</em>.</p><p>Surely not?</p><hr/><p>Edmund was finishing his morning ride, in lieu of breakfast (he had not been feeling hungry that morning, merely unsettled), galloping towards the front of the house when he spotted a huddled golden-haired figure – her bare feet nearly as dark a blue as the dressing-gown she wore – sitting on the front steps, crying into her hands.</p><p>"What's this?" He slipped down from his horse and ran up the path, arms outstretched. "My poor dear little sister, whatever can be the matter?"</p><p>She lowered her splayed hands, both ashamed and relieved to see him, but she was so stiff she could barely rise to her numb feet without help.</p><p>"My <em>goodness</em> – how long have you been out here?"</p><hr/><p>Mrs. Norris entered, much to her annoyance, as the breakfast things were already being cleared and was – at first – so preoccupied with how she must tell Sir Thomas about her unpleasant discovery that she failed to register the extra person rising from the table with the others.</p><p>From her peripheral vision, she registered a person who was hearty, full-cheeked, a little shorter than Maria, and <em>blonde</em>, and concluded – almost unconsciously – Julia was returned from London and had been seated next to her eldest brother.</p><p>Normally this manner of surprise would have pleased Mrs. Norris, despite her general preference for Maria over Julia, and she'd have made a grand fuss over her beloved niece's return, but she was too perturbed to bother with the usual niceties this morning.</p><p>What <em>would</em> her poor dear sister think? Would Sir Thomas decide it better that she not be told?</p><p>It was not until 'Julia' spoke, saying, "But where's Fanny? Breakfast is over and she's not come – she's <em>got</em> to be lost in the house," that Mrs. Norris pressed a hand to her heart and stared, head-on, at the stranger with pure bewilderment. This unfamiliar person was<em> not</em> Julia! She did not have her lovely niece's pretty manner of speech, nor her fine clothes; her voice was crass and uneducated, her dress <em>old</em>, and the resemblance up close was not so great after all.</p><p>"Sir Thomas," cried Mrs. Norris, "who is this?"</p><p>When his father did not reply, Tom – who had been examining a newspaper and hadn't glanced up even when rising from his seat or when his table-side companion spoke – said, "<em>Hmm</em>? What's that?" He folded the paper and blinked. "Oh, yes, Aunt Norris, this is your niece Susan Price – Susan Price, Aunt Norris. There, that's enough. I have done with it. Introductions are always grown so very <em>dull</em> by the third time one has to make them."</p><p>Nothing made sense to Mrs. Norris now. <em>Niece</em>? This wretch? One of the plethora of children belonging to her sister Frances and that low-born sailor William Price she'd thrown herself away on? Had Tom brought the hapless girl back with him from Portsmouth? Why should he <em>do</em> such a thing? What could have <em>possessed</em> him?</p><p>"But where's Fanny?" insisted Susan, who did not care a wit about any Aunt Norrises when her sister was missing.</p><p>"Susan, you are most <em>remarkably</em> skilled at <em>missing the point entirely</em> when someone is repeatedly – yes, I say <em>repeatedly</em> – hinting at you to drop the subject!" Tom sighed exasperatedly, tossing the paper down carelessly onto a servant's already loaded tray as they passed. Then, "I expect she is still asleep. Worn out, poor mouse. We shall leave her to it – the servants can make her biscuits and buns – or sweet rolls, if she prefers – and tea at any hour she wakes. S'not as if she'll go hungry."</p><p>"She wasn't in the room when I left it," Susan said.</p><p>"I'm sure you're mistaken." Tom's voice was a little higher than usual, and his eyes were darting nervously in his father's direction. "Fanny is asleep in the room she's meant to be in, of course. Where else should she be?"</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>?" echoed Mrs. Norris, beginning to feel as if she might have made a dreadful mistake – the girl she'd taken for a prostitute and put out of the house...she... She looked <em>very</em> like this one, only thinner and more sickly in complexion. "Whoever <em>is</em> this Fanny you're on about?"</p><p>"Alas, Mrs. Norris" – and Sir Thomas entered the conversation at last, as it could no longer be avoided – "I regret to inform you that Tom did rather a foolish thing during his time in Portsmouth and eloped with–"</p><p>"<em>Oi</em>!" put in Tom, outraged. "Hang on. It was not an elopement, Father! Indeed, it was nothing of the sort! Her family were all present and accounted for, and Edmund performed the ceremony, and John Yates – who is an <em>Honourable</em>, as you know, sir – was in attendance as well. One can scarcely call such a respectable affair <em>elopement</em>."</p><p>Mrs. Norris went white as a ghost, her countenance shaken, drained of all colour. "But Tom is...married...? How can this be?"</p><p>It was explained, then, as concisely as possible, about Tom stumbling upon his poor relations in Portsmouth, spotting Fanny at a ball, and contriving to marry her and bring her back to Mansfield with him to make sport of his father.</p><p>"The girl... Oh, dear, the <em>girl</em>... Good <em>heavens</em>! The girl, I've just put..." stammered Mrs. Norris, once she'd heard the story.</p><p>"Which girl is this you're speaking of, Mrs. Norris?" murmured Lady Bertram, bending over to pick up Pug (who had been yapping about her ankles throughout most of this conversation), quite puzzled by her sister's reaction.</p><p>That was when Edmund burst in with his arm around the very girl Mrs. Norris had been speaking of. "Tom, for pity's sake, if you cannot keep track of your own wife, I–"</p><p>"Oh,<em> Fanny</em>!" cried Susan, aghast.</p><p>Tom, to his credit, ran across the room – nearly toppling two unfortunately-stationed servants over in the process – and was before her in a flash, rubbing her hands and exclaiming over how cold she was and – utterly heedless now of his father learning where she'd been last night, as it no longer mattered, in light of <em>this</em> – asking what could have happened to put her in such a state when he'd left her perfectly safe and warm.</p><p>"And, pray, which idiot house-maid has shut you out of doors?" he demanded, taking in Edmund's riding clothes and Fanny wearing only his own dressing-gown and piecing together what must have occurred. "Point the wretch out to me at once; I'll see her dismissed without references."</p><p>Fanny, teeth chattering madly and barely returned to herself, could not bear to have a servant punished – to see them lose their job – when none of them had wronged her and – though it frightened her dreadfully – brought herself to mumble it was <em>Mrs. Norris </em>who'd taken her to the front door and put her out of the house.</p><p>"I did not <em>know</em>!" was Mrs. Norris' angry, defensive retort. "How <em>could</em> I have? I thought her... I expected she must be..." She coloured vividly, going from white to red, and the rage of mounting embarrassment within her she held, both in that moment and later on, as being completely Fanny's fault. "What was I <em>meant</em> to think? Coming upon, as I did, a strange woman dressed in nearly nothing at all creeping out of Tom's chambers while you all breakfasted – unawares, so far as I could imagine? Do you see, Sir Thomas, what needless tragedy occurs when I am the last to learn of these things?"</p><p>Sir Thomas arched an eyebrow.</p><p>"Oh, poor,<em> poor</em> Fanny!" Susan exclaimed. "Why didn't you just show our aunt your wedding ring?"</p><p>"I did not..." She murmured, looking – through light, glassy, unfocused eyes – from Susan to Tom, "I didn't <em>think</em> of it; I'm so sorry."</p><p>"If you were more responsible," Edmund growled, removing his arm from around Fanny and pointing emphatically at his brother, his full fury still directed only at Tom, "this might not–"</p><p>"What're you taking <em>my</em> head off for?" cried Tom, waving an arm behind himself in the vague direction of Mrs. Norris. "<em>Aunt Norris</em> is the one who was foolhardy enough to shut Fanny out of doors on the coldest damn morning we've had this time of year in nearly a decade – talk to<em> her </em>about it!"</p><p>"I fear the poor child may be on the point of fainting," commented Lady Bertram, clutching her pug a little closer to her breast; she spoke so quietly they almost did not near her.</p><p>Lady Bertram was not mistaken, however.</p><p>Fanny's knees buckled, giving way, and she slumped forward into Tom's arms.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Family Matters, Not Entirely Unavoidable</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Sixteen:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Family Matters, Not Entirely Unavoidable</em>
</p><p>Fanny woke, for the second time that day, uncertain of where in the house she <em>was</em>.</p><p>The bed was a four-poster, like Tom's, but it had no canopy and the coverlet was a different colour. The fireplace was across from the bed, similar to its position up in the attic-room, although<em> this</em> room (and its aforementioned fireplace) was a great deal larger and had many more furnishings.</p><p>Above the mantelpiece there was a gold-framed landscape watercolour of what might have been some sort of springtime meadow scene.</p><p>At first, she thought herself alone, but before her frazzled emotions could flitter from relief to the disappointment of possible neglect, she lolled her head to the opposite side and saw Edmund sitting in a wingback chair, silently reading the Bible.</p><p>He glanced up, shutting the Bible with a gentle <em>thump</em> when he saw her looking at him. "Ah. You're awake. At last. How are you feeling, Fanny?"</p><p>She could not <em>say</em>. Her head ached dreadfully; her throat was dry; her body was cold but her face was slick with perspiration; moreover, she couldn't quite remember what happened between Edmund finding her outside and waking up here. She vaguely recalled Susan saying something about how she ought to have shown Mrs. Norris her wedding ring, and feeling stupid she herself had not thought of it, and she knew Tom had been there, but her memory supplied little else.</p><p>She did not actually recall fainting, though it was evident she had.</p><p>Her mind kept trying to tell her something, urgently, but the message was fuzzy; she did not grasp the importance until – sitting up – she realised she was wearing an unfamiliar nightdress that was a little too tight around her chest and arms.</p><p>"W-who...?"</p><p>Edmund smiled reassuringly. "It's all right, Fanny – it was Susan and one of the older house-maids. They took care of that on their own behind a screen. Nobody saw anything."</p><p>"But whose...?" She lifted a lace-encased arm and shook the fabric.</p><p>"Oh," he chuckled. "I hadn't thought you'd ask. It was one of Julia's. Don't worry, it won't be missed. Anything she still wears was taken with her to London." He motioned behind himself. "There's a little door over there, leads directly into Julia's chambers. This was my room before I moved to Thornton Lacey; her rooms and my own are connected, you see.</p><p>"So were Tom's and Maria's for a while – believe it or not. Until angry little Maria complained to Aunt Norris about how Tom simply walked in whenever he pleased, and sometimes brought his Eton friends along with him; then the entrance to the antechamber between their rooms was sealed up to give them both more privacy.</p><p>"Personally, I think – oh, and <em>do</em> keep this between ourselves, Fanny – before yesterday, Tom was secretly hoping our father would give <em>you</em> Maria's old chambers and unseal the passageway, never considering how our Aunt Norris would probably have a heart attack at the mere <em>suggestion</em> of such a thing. To be fair, I concede it is not impractical – not if this were already Tom's house – as it would give you both a great deal more space and you'd still be together while being able to have each whatever decorations you like best, but he doesn't consider matters as they currently are."</p><p>Fanny's eyes darted – not to the door Edmund had said led into Julia's chambers, but to the door closer to the fireplace; the door leading out into the hallway, no doubt.</p><p>"Where," she asked, "<em>is</em> Tom?"</p><p>Edmund winced. Standing up, he set his Bible down on the chair behind himself, then – holding up his index finger – walked over to the door, opening it.</p><p>"<em>Wait</em>," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "You'll hear him in a moment – depend upon it."</p><p>"And <em>you</em>!" shouted the voice of her husband in a – rather nasty – tone Fanny had never heard before. "Why didn't you let my wife back inside? That's your blasted <em>job</em>, isn't it? Letting people in and out of this house?"</p><p>"Master Thomas, regrettably, I fear, none of the staff were aware–" Then, breaking off, following a thud, "<em>Ouch</em>!"</p><p>"Tom, my love," came Lady Bertram's quavering voice next, "pray do not throw blunt objects at the butler's head – he does not <em>like</em> it."</p><p>"For God's sake, Tom, is this any way to behave?" boomed Sir Thomas. "Baddeley, why don't you take the rest of the day off."</p><p>"Very good, sir."</p><p>Tom let out an indignant little cry, followed by a shrill, unbecoming <em>whine</em>. "Nobody in this house comprehends my suffering!"</p><p>"<em>Your</em> suffering?" – this sounded liked Susan, choked with righteous fury. "For shame, Mr. Bertram!"</p><p>"Oh, so I'm returned to being <em>Mr. Bertram</em> again, am I, sister? How lovely."</p><p>"Oooh" – a graceless <em>stomp</em> – "if you would stop pitying yourself for a dashed second and see reason! It's <em>Fanny</em> who nearly froze to death. You can't be–"</p><p>She was cut off by the carrying voice of Mrs. Norris – which made Fanny flinch involuntarily, even from the safety of the bed – saying, "Oh,<em> I</em> understand, Tom, of course you know<em> I </em>do comprehend all your suffering! You can trust me alone to empathise with young people when others fail to. We shall have a talk, you and I, once you've quite calmed down, and you will see that I... Where... Hang on, wherever are you <em>going</em>? Get back here this instant, young man!"</p><p>Clearing his throat apologetically, Edmund closed the door, shutting out the remainder of the shouting-match. "I expect you've heard enough now to satisfy yourself regarding your husband's whereabouts?"</p><p>Struggling not to cry, Fanny nodded.</p><p>"I'm not trying to say <em>I told you so</em>, Fanny," whispered Edmund, as he walked back to the chair and began to pace in front of it. "I simply don't know what else..."</p><p>"It's a shame," said Fanny, suddenly, desperate for a new subject, "that you and Julia and Tom and Maria were not so very close – with a joining rooms, what<em> fun</em> you might have had as children!"</p><p>Edmund smiled. "I've often thought just the same." He closed his eyes. "In truth, with no offence intended towards my sisters – you know I do love them – I would have been glad, as a boy, of even <em>Tom's</em> friendship. That much alone would have satisfied me. There was a time I wanted very badly to be his friend. Nowadays, I often finding myself wondering why that ever was. How I could have felt that way, given our stark difference of character."</p><p>"When I was little, my favourite sister..." began Fanny, her voice still hoarse and made even more so by the subject matter.</p><p>"Susan?"</p><p>"No – <em>Mary</em>... Her name was Mary."</p><p>"A lovely name," said Edmund, though he was biased.</p><p>"There was a time I preferred little Mary's company to any other in the whole world save only dearest William's."</p><p>"I did not meet your Mary in Portsmouth."</p><p>"I fear that's because she is dead, Edmund – she died a long time ago. Susan's little silver knife – the one she carries about with her, now that she's got it away from Mother and Betsey and Portsmouth, you might have seen it – was <em>hers</em>, once."</p><p>"Oh, I'm so sorry."</p><p>"I never meant to<em> hurt</em> Susan, you know, loving Mary and William best," croaked Fanny, running her fingertips along the coverlet. "I was just a child."</p><p>"Of course not! No one could accuse someone as sweet as you of such a thing!" He was ready to defend her even against her own conscience, as speedy as William might have done in his place – for he thought only the more highly of his sister-in-law for considering the potential pains she might have inadvertently caused, believed it further proof of her infallible inner goodness.</p><p>"I don't think Tom meant to hurt you, either, Edmund – I truly do not."</p><p>"Do you think he means to hurt <em>you</em>?"</p><p>"No," she said softly, staring off into the middle distance. "<em>No</em>, I don't."</p><hr/><p>The next person Fanny was to see (Edmund would not permit her to rise from the bed) was not Tom, as she hoped, believing – perhaps with little enough cause – that by his deserting Mrs. Norris while she spoke, however rudely, he might have been coming to <em>her</em>, to see how she got on.</p><p>No, indeed, Tom did not make an appearance for several hours.</p><p>It was not only Fanny who missed him, and who was left to wonder if he was even still within the house; the entire family was denied his company for the remainder of the day.</p><p>"He'll be sulking, hunched petulantly in some corner or other, snorting snuff up his nostrils like it's going out of fashion," was all Edmund had to say about it. "He won't have removed himself from the grounds; I doubt he'd even spend long out of doors with how cold it is today. But every time one of us walks into a room, looking for him, mark my words, he'll walk out of it the opposite way, brisk as he can, so that we should never come upon him. It's a trick he's pulled often enough to guess at."</p><p>And so it was <em>Susan</em> who came to visit Fanny.</p><p>She did not arrive in the room empty-handed. A resourceful girl, she had first gone to the kitchen – which she found with more ease than her elder sister had managed – and taken bread from the cupboard, along with some apricot preserves and cream cheese which she cut carefully from a block she found under a cloth tucked in a cool corner.</p><p>Mrs. Norris – still looking for Tom when his parents had given up, convinced he'd need to show up for supper or tea, or at least make himself known to the servants and order something brought to him eventually if he did not wish to starve – had come upon Susan slicing into the cheese and was quite outraged.</p><p>"Why have you stolen the cream cheese?" she demanded, taking up more of the doorway than she had any right to, glaring mercilessly. "And those preserves are not yours, either, Susan Price!" Her nostrils flared. "Those apricots come from the parsonage – which, let me tell you, used to be my home before my good husband, Mr. Norris – God rest his soul – passed on from this world."</p><p>Susan looked her straight in the eye, unflinching. "It's not for me, Aunt Norris – they're for Fanny." She had then twisted her features into something that was not <em>mocking</em> – no, she would not risk her unsteady place in this household for a display such as that – and might have been called <em>sweet</em> by some, but it was exaggerated to such an extent no one could truly believe it sincere or without double-meaning. She even fluttered her pale eyelashes for an added demure effect. "You can't have forgotten <em>Fanny</em>, I trust, dear aunt? Not <em>again</em>?"</p><p>Mrs. Norris had <em>seethed</em>, and from that moment on believed Susan as much spy and intruder as she was an unwelcome, indigent niece. How Tom could have brought such an uncouth, ungrateful creature home! Fanny – that simpering little thing who looked like she'd faint at the sight of blood, and had fainted over only an unfortunate chill, yet had possessed, somehow, the wits about her to ensnare the son of a baronet – was bad enough, but the sister!</p><p>Dear God, Mrs. Norris lamented her own uncertainty on how she was deal with such a niece. For Susan was<em> feral</em>. Fanny, for all that was disagreeable about her, resembled Lady Bertram more closely than she ever did her namesake – <em>Susan</em>, meanwhile, had inherited her mother's mouth in both shape and speech.</p><p>What Mrs. Norris would have made of <em>Betsey</em>, if the much more reasonable <em>Susan</em> could rumble her spirits so totally and disturb what was left of her proud inner tranquillity, no one could say.</p><p>At any rate, Susan was left carrying the good things, unhindered, up to her sister exactly as she intended.</p><p>Edmund praised his cousin for her good sense, remarking that Fanny hadn't eaten all day and must be in need of exactly what Susan fetched unasked.</p><p>"How resourceful of you, Susie." He smiled warmly, giving up his chair to her. "Though, you might have used a tray. Regardless, it's well<em> done</em>. I'm truly glad Tom accepted my ultimatum. The immeasurable good you'll do here, for your sister and my mother, I can only imagine. You were wasted in Portsmouth."</p><p>"What ultimatum?" asked Susan, placing the napkin the food was bound up in gently onto Fanny's lap and readjusting one of the pillows behind her so she might sit up more comfortably.</p><p>"You didn't know?" Edmund's brow lifted in considerable surprise. "I told Tom I wouldn't perform the marriage ceremony if he didn't consent to bring you to Mansfield with us. That, and he must write to our parents – which he claims he did, but I would highly doubt it if not for Fanny's word."</p><p>Fanny went very stiff – she appeared, to the two concerned parties in the room, as if someone had just slapped her across the face. "<em>You</em>..." She looked to Edmund with moist eyes. "Please, I'm not sure I understand, Edmund. Are you telling us <em>you</em> were the one who said Susan was to come to live at Mansfield – not Tom?"</p><p>Edmund felt as if he were standing on thin ice, and wished his words unsaid, but he could not lie. "Eh, that is... Yes. Of course. Tom didn't–"</p><p>"Tom didn't wish me to come," Susan finished for him, her expression gone stony, her eyes bluer than usual.</p><p>"It was nothing personal," Edmund hurried to assure her. "Indeed, my brother is as fond of you as..." But his frantic stammering was doing no <em>good</em>. None whatever. He could not go on.</p><p>If Susan's anger caused Edmund pain and made him long all the more fervently to take his thoughtless words back, Fanny's sad, resigned countenance was far worse. It was plain to see now how Tom took credit for bringing Susan here, and Fanny had had no knowledge of the real conversation between the brothers regarding the matter, but it was known too late to make any difference.</p><p>They were interrupted by Mrs. Norris in the doorway (Fanny shrank into the pillows and tried not to look at her directly), asking if Tom was in there with the rest of them.</p><p>"No, Aunt Norris," sighed Edmund, rubbing his temples. "We've not see him anywhere near this part of the house, either."</p><p>"Well," she sniffed; "you did all seem to be having a party up here – making merry with jams and cream cheeses and discoursing with one another in so distinctively <em>amplified</em> a manner – and you know how fond Tom is of such goings on. The boy loves gatherings and being jolly. I thought he'd have made an appearance. There is lacking only music, and it would be <em>very much</em> a party rather than a sickroom. Though I dare say Fanny is not doing so very poorly as to warrant a proper sickroom, after all. Great deal of fuss over nothing at all."</p><p>"<em>Well</em>, as you can see he's <em>not</em> with us," said Susan, sweetly, through her teeth, gesturing with an open arm as she plopped backwards into the wingback chair. "And I'm afraid <em>Mrs. Bertram</em> does very poorly indeed just now."</p><p>"<em>Susan Price</em>, that chair," snapped Mrs. Norris, before departing with heavy footsteps, "is not <em>built</em> to take such flagrant abuse – I would have hoped your mother raised you better than to fall into your seat like that."</p><p>Edmund's eyes popped. His hands, still clutching the spine of his Bible, shook. "Susan, be<em> careful</em>," he whispered urgently. "If you make her despise you today, she could be cross with you forever after. She means no real harm, I believe" – though, this, of course, he was <em>obliged</em> to say and did not truly feel in his heart at the moment, not after how his aunt had put Fanny out of the house earlier, her lack of knowledge of the situation notwithstanding – "but she's prone to poor humours."</p><p>"I can't forgive her," hissed Susan, looking to Fanny. "Her resentment isn't <em>fair</em> – it's not as if she married so very well to look down on my mother and snub my sister. Mr. Norris was only a parson." Mrs. Norris was hardly <em>Lady Norris</em>, for all the airs she put on and how high she held her nose.</p><p>The corners of Edmund's mouth lifted. "Only a parson? I see how it must be, then. But, cousin, what <em>is</em> it with women and their distaste for the clergy these days, I wonder?"</p><p>"You know I couldn't mean it like that," sighed Susan.</p><p>"You shouldn't<em> tease</em> her so, Edmund," whispered Fanny, eyes half closed – yet she smiled also, if only partially.</p><p>At Fanny's urging, he had mercy on her. "I <em>know</em>, Susie – rest easy, I'm the furthest thing from cross with you."</p><hr/><p>When it was dark and the house had gone to sleep, Edmund retiring – for the time being – into Julia's room, and Susan returning to the attic-room, Fanny felt her hand being grasped, lifted, and tenderly kissed.</p><p>She opened her eyes and saw – by the firelight – Tom had come to see her at last.</p><p>It was on the tip of her tongue to ask where he had been, why he would not come in to see her sooner, but she realised – of course – that she already <em>knew</em>. She simply didn't like it. Chastising him now would do neither of them any good. Still, it was hard to hold back. Not only had he spent the day hiding from her because he was hiding from the others, she'd learned he had lied to her – more or less – about his wanting Susan here. He had misrepresented his generosity. Yet, her disappointment over his selfishness made her chest constrict painfully. How could he say he loved her, and behave so carelessly?</p><p>Here he was, simply expecting her forgiveness, as if it were a given.</p><p>"It shan't happen again, Fanny," he said, after a pause, taking her hand once more and giving it a little squeeze. "You'll never find yourself turned out of this house again so long as you live, I<em> promise</em>." He let go of her hand, reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and sneezed. "Ah. Pardon me."</p><p>So, it would seem Edmund was right about the snuff, then, too.</p><hr/><p>The next couple of days were slow-passing ones for Fanny. She was well enough to get up and take breakfast with the rest of the family – and she demurely endured Aunt Norris glaring at her for most of the meal – then was subjected to what lengthened into a nearly three-hour discussion in the drawing-room regarding whether or not she ought to be moved back into the attic-room with Susan that night.</p><p>Edmund insisted nothing of the sort must be done – Fanny could keep his old room for as long as she needed, he was in no hurry to have it back. Certainly it was more convenient – less stairs and all that, given her weakened state.</p><p>Mrs. Norris held the exact opposite opinion, naturally, firm in her belief that Julia – should she return from London unexpectedly – would be very inconvenienced to discover Edmund sleeping in her bedroom.</p><p>"But to be sure, it does not seem very likely," Sir Thomas had to say, with a shake of his head, "Julia will return anytime soon – expectedly or otherwise – and Edmund may have gone back to Thornton Lacey before that ever occurs. The attic-room is well enough, but the fireplace in Edmund's chambers gives off a good deal more warmth, which may be preferable, given the shock Fanny's had. Not everyone is so hardy as yourself, Mrs. Norris."</p><p>Fanny was deeply moved by this unlooked-for kindness from her father-in-law, her eyes filling with tears of gratitude.</p><p>"The next few days will not be so very cold – the thaw in the weather began yesterday afternoon, you know," argued Mrs. Norris. "And Fanny would seem to be <em>quite</em> recovered. You mustn't dole out special favours on <em>that</em> account, Sir Thomas. You really mustn't. Think of propriety. Think of <em>Julia</em>."</p><p>Susan <em>glowered</em>.</p><p>"You all know," said Tom, barely looking up from the newspaper as he turned the page emphatically, "what <em>I </em>think."</p><p>"<em>Susan</em>," snapped Mrs. Norris, noticing her bitter expression, "why are you idle? It's a shocking trick for a young person to be sitting on the sofa with her betters and hold no work in her hands. If you have none of your own, there is always the poor basket. You might ask someone before you think to settle down with nothing at all."</p><p>"If <em>Lady Bertram</em> wishes me to sew, I will," said Susan, with an emphasis that could not be missed or masked by the sugary tone she employed. "I'm very obliged to my <em>Aunt Bertram</em>."</p><p>Her moment of thankful reverie quite <em>ended</em>, Fanny winced, wringing her own empty hands helplessly, and wished herself anywhere else but here at this tense moment.</p><p>Lady Bertram was very possibly the sole person in the room <em>not</em> to pick up on Susan's true meaning, the obvious slight against Mrs. Norris, and she smiled at her niece and murmured that 'darling Susie' was a very good, grateful girl indeed, with such very pretty manners, and she wondered how they ever got on without her.</p><p>In the end, the matter was settled – for a little longer, at least – that Fanny should keep using Edmund's room, provided Edmund himself maintained he had no objections, which he did with a good will.</p><p>Rolling his eyes, Tom got up and quit the room unceremoniously, ignoring Sir Thomas' accompanying bellows that he would need have need of him today and he had not been dismissed. "Tom, you get back here at once – this very instant! <em>Tom</em>!"</p><p>The tension so thick it might have been sliced and served – mixed with having had too rich a breakfast – got to Fanny's frazzled nerves at last and she <em>retched</em>, pressing her hand to her mouth and having to excuse herself from the room as well.</p><p>"<em>Sir Thomas</em>! If that girl should prove to be in a delicate state already, before this disastrously ill-advised marriage has been made public," fretted Mrs. Norris, far too loudly, "people will <em>talk</em>. Rumours regarding precisely what claim she had to entrap Tom into this union will abound." She looked to Sir Thomas with visible alarm. "How shall we endure the scandal?"</p><p>"She's taken <em>ill</em>, that's all – and small <em>wonder </em>why!" Susan declared, rising from the sofa and going after her sister.</p><p>"Such an outburst!" cried Mrs. Norris, her hands flying to her throat. "On my word, I've never seen such ill-bred girls in all my life!"</p><p>Later in the afternoon, when the presence of an employed second son was not required for anything else, Edmund decided to go through Julia's unwanted things and see what might do for Susan and Fanny's every day use, given they had so little of their own belongings by way of clothing, and found some dresses he thought might do well enough.</p><p>They fit Susan, and the effect was remarkable, even to the servants who seemed to respect her more dressed in Julia's clothes than they had her Portsmouth garments, but they fit Fanny very poorly indeed. They were too tight about the bust and arms whilst being too large everywhere else because of her diminutive size. There was no point in having them altered for her, when – as Mrs. Bertram – she ought to have an entirely new wardrobe soon, so she was obliged to continue wearing her Portsmouth clothing for a while longer.</p><p>"<em>Maria's</em> dresses would fit you, Fanny – I'm sure of it – but Aunt Norris would string me up by my thumbs if she found out," lamented Edmund, shaking his head as his sister-in-law changed out of the ill-fitting dress and reappeared at the other end of the screen in her own shabby attire again.</p><p>"That's all right," said Fanny, quietly, pleased enough for Susan's sake. "You look <em>beautiful</em>, Susie."</p><p>A door flew open and Tom rushed through Julia's room with a hasty, "I was <em>never</em> here – you haven't seen me!" before the opposite door slammed shut and he was gone.</p><p>A moment later, Sir Thomas appeared, remarked – with surprisingly gallantry – on Susan's altered appearance, apologised for interrupting them, and asked – not without some repressed furry in his strained voice – if they'd seen Tom.</p><p>Fanny gnawed on her lower lip; Susan slipped behind the screen, her face flushing; Edmund shrugged.</p><p>"<em>Edmund</em>," pressed Sir Thomas.</p><p>"I can say, truly, Father, I have no idea where he is at this moment."</p><p>"<em>Edmund</em>."</p><p>"He <em>says</em>, Father, that he was never here and we haven't seen him."</p><p>"Ah." The lines around his mouth tightened considerably. "I see." Then, "So I've only just missed him."</p><p>"Only just," Edmund confirmed.</p><p>The next day was more of the same – tense family debates, Tom in turn shirking from the family on the whole, dodging them wherever possible, and, in one instance, being dragged through the west-end of the big house by his ear, soaking wet and dripping discoloured water and chunks of algae onto the carpet, after Sir Thomas had discovered him vigorously paddling across the park's largest pond fully clothed save for his boots which he'd unwisely concealed behind a less than substantial tree, and Mrs. Norris always looking to Fanny with narrowed eyes as if she were a great big cuckoo in the nest and was personally and solely responsible for their collective misery – and Fanny was truly starting to believe this would be her lot in life for evermore.</p><p>Then Tom wasn't at breakfast the following morning.</p><p>Sir Thomas did not make any explanation for his son's absence; he spoke very little, and both Susan and Fanny might as well not have been present for all his acknowledgement towards them.</p><p>Aunt Norris was also not present for the meal, which was a relief and led both Fanny and Edmund to suspect that, in all likelihood, Tom was eating with<em> her</em>, at her own nearby house, enduring one of her simpering speeches. Speeches which were meant to be consoling to her nephew but were, in actuality, more of a thinly veiled excuse to openly bemoan his unfortunate choice of wife while absolving him of any <em>personal</em> blame in the matter, expressing her unshakable, if also <em>irrational</em>, belief that <em>Fanny Price</em> had done all the chasing in her eagerness to join herself to a future baronet. She'd managed at least four of these completed speeches in the span of only two days. One could not accuse Mrs. Norris of <em>dithering</em>, that much was certain.</p><p>However, as the hours ticked by, with surprisingly little to vex her, to the point where such fragile and unexpected peace was growing eerie, Fanny began to fear something must be amiss.</p><p>It was only herself and Edmund in the drawing-room (Susan busy helping Lady Bertram with some task upstairs and Sir Thomas having quitted the house hours before) if one did not count the house-maid who brought in the tea and refreshments.</p><p>Screwing up her courage, Fanny looked to the maid and asked, meekly, if she wouldn't mind taking a message to Mr. Bertram asking him to join them if he was not otherwise engaged. She'd never given orders to any of the servants prior to this, and her heart was pounding madly at the presumption, but she managed to keep her composure and was feeling pleased with her own progress until the house-maid blinked at her in visible confusion.</p><p>"I'm sorry," said Fanny, blushing, "is there something wrong?"</p><p>The house-maid motioned at Edmund. "He's already here, madam – sitting right next to you."</p><p>"Not Mr. <em>Edmund</em> Bertram," Fanny blurted with visible relief at what she judged to be an easy to resolve misunderstanding between herself and the staff, even if the house-maid was acting a bit as though she believed her future mistress a dull-witted child. "Mr. Bertram – my... my husband. <em>Tom</em> Bertram."</p><p>She looked at Edmund again. "Begging your pardon, madam, but <em>he</em> is Mr. Bertram when the master's eldest son is not in residence."</p><p>Edmund's eyes widened. "Hang on – what are you saying?"</p><p>"Mr. Bertram has quit Mansfield Park, of course." The maid's lips parted uncertainly. "Forgive me, sir, I thought you knew."</p><p>Fanny felt as if the floor under her feet were about to split open and swallow both her and the sofa upon which she sat. The world was tilting violently. She was going to be sick if she did not take control of herself very quickly. "I don't understand." Blanching, her eyes darted from the house-maid to Edmund. "He has... He has left a letter, or a note... This is some business, for his father. He will be back soon?"</p><p>"Fanny..." began Edmund, a catch in his voice.</p><p>"Aye, there was a note," confirmed the house-maid, giving a curt little nod. "Baddeley will have it – shall I fetch him for you, madam?" But it was <em>Edmund</em> she glanced to for an answer, even as she spoke so politely to Fanny.</p><p>"Please," said Fanny. "If it wouldn't be any trouble."</p><p>Edmund nodded grimly, then – as the house-maid walked away – said, once more, "<em>Fanny</em>."</p><p>"I'm sure it's nothing."</p><p>"Fanny, I thought he'd last longer than this."</p><p>"He left a note," was her only straw to clutch at. "He hasn't..."</p><p>The butler entered, before Edmund could reply, apologised for the delay in passing on the message – things below stairs had not been to their usual standards all day, preoccupying him – and held out the folded note.</p><p>With unsteady knees, Fanny pulled herself up from the sofa and reached to take it, but Baddeley smoothly drew the note back. "Begging your pardon, madam, but it's addressed to Mr. Bertram."</p><p>She sank back down, deflated. Why had she assumed any message left by Tom would be for <em>her</em>? Shouldn't she have known it was a vain, foolish hope? Didn't she know the sort of husband she had better than that by now?</p><p>Pained, Edmund opened the note and read it to himself. He then proceeded to blurt out a choice oath so shocking in coming from <em>him</em>, of all people, that Fanny nearly forgot her misery long enough to be scandalised.</p><p>"But you're..." He was a <em>clergyman</em> – he'd made a few slips before within her hearing, but not to this extent, not quite, and she hadn't been aware men of the cloth were allowed to say...well, that...</p><p>He shut his eyes and moaned. "I know, Fanny, I <em>know</em> – forgive me." He sighed. "I did not mean to. And, truly, I've always felt a parson ought to set the example in proper speech for all the rest of the congregation. Alas, I'm no saint, however much I might wish to be."</p><p>"What does Tom say?"</p><p>Edmund sucked in his lips. "Nothing. It doesn't matter."</p><p>"Please tell me."</p><p>"Nothing about you or where he's gone." He folded his hands and made a motion as if to crumple the note up and toss it in the direction of an unlit fireplace.</p><p>"I'll think the worst," Fanny whispered brokenly. "Please, Edmund, just tell me what the note says." She could bear <em>anything</em> except, she thought, for not knowing.</p><p>"Here, read it for yourself." Smoothing the slight wrinkle he'd left in the thick, unlined stationary paper, he handed it to her. "Much good may it do your peace of mind, poor dear Fanny."</p><p>
  <em>Edmund,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Please do not forget to exercise my hunter while I'm away.</em>
</p><p>– <em>T.B.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Degradation, Digging One's Self Out</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Seventeen:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Degradation, Digging One's Self Out</em>
</p><p>How long before Tom realised he had made a grievous mistake?</p><p>Before it dawned on him how leaving Mansfield Park as he did, slipping carelessly away as he'd done a thousand times before, was not – this time – well done, a successful evasion which harmed no one and vexed only a few?</p><p>Not very.</p><p>Truly, not very long <em>at all</em>. Little credit though it may actually be to his character.</p><p>His error became apparent to him before he even reached his destination.</p><p>And yet, doggedly, he had pressed on; meaning, however, not to linger as he might have originally planned. No, indeed, he would stay no more than a day at the most; should spend, really, more hours on the journey – both ways, there and back once again – than on anything else.</p><p>He would not consent – he was yet stubborn on this point – to call it a <em>waste</em>.</p><p>Not even to himself.</p><p>For how could he, as he then was, face the truth?</p><p>That, in fleeing what he had perceived to be the evils of home, he had recklessly abandoned also his most meaningful pleasure?</p><p>If he had given heed to the first pangs of distress his heart made known to him, Tom Bertram would scarcely have finished his packing, let alone made it off the grounds of Mansfield Park. He might, upon realising the cause of his distress, only have gone, to cool his head, into Mansfield Wood and come back to the house again in an hour's time, his coat slung over his shoulder and his temper still not quite what it should have been yet his resolve to endure strengthened all the same.</p><p>But, unaware <em>what</em> he should attribute such unexpected and acute feeling to, he missed the most obvious – and only likely – explanation for having a sense of hesitance and pre-emptive regret eating away at his innards: he would miss Fanny dreadfully.</p><p>And so, the note to his brother had been written, callously, and without a thought to his wife's feeling deserted at not having so much as a letter of her own to clutch in his absence, and he'd slipped away into the foggy morning.</p><p>Travelling via public stage coach (and – wedged between two less than hygienic persons who <em>would</em> persist, despite his horror-struck expressions, in stuffing their little fingers up their noses and then wiping them on the lapels of their coats – privately resolving never to do so again if it could possibly be helped) Tom found himself beginning to wish, rather fervently, he was en route to his <em>wife</em> – whose near-angelic qualities seemed to shine in his mind all the more brightly in comparison with the present company – instead of Weymouth.</p><p>He glanced down, glumly, at his wedding band, and sighed.</p><p>Perhaps he might have done a great deal better to begin – straight away – his plans to turn around and go home, but the lure of a cosy sea-side tavern where there would be merry games and drink seemed no great evil to him, particularly as he did not intend to stay long, and it proved the beginning of his extended troubles.</p><p>One drink became three, and – following the completion of his third glass – he found himself at a card-table with a man who did a very poor job indeed of disguising what must have been the most dismal of hands. The other players, too, did not appear to know what they were about. A little more money for the trip back had seemed prudent – a sure thing, a comfort.</p><p>A fourth drink was had, and – before Tom quite realised it – he had no more money to wager.</p><p>How had he lost every single guinea he'd come in with? Surely, he thought in pure bafflement, he was not so drunk as <em>that</em>.</p><p>A dim suspicion that someone had seen him coming and slipped something into his drink floated briefly along the murky stream of his consciousness, but in the end it seemed most unlikely – no, it was mere fatigue and grogginess from travel which made him so unusually dull and slow and stupid. He ought to have gotten some sleep before attempting to gamble so seriously.</p><p>Would he have to write to his father and ask for the carriage to be sent from Mansfield?</p><p>No, certainly not.</p><p>Tom would rather have eaten dirt – rather have licked the filthy floor of the tavern with everyone watching him – rather have crawled about on all fours picking up any dropped coins – than have to ask his father – or, worse, perish the thought, <em>Edmund </em>– for help getting home. And the letter might not reach home in any time to make a difference, if it reached home at all. His letter telling his father about his marriage had gone astray, after all.</p><p>"Hmm, what d'you say to one more hand," murmured Tom.</p><p>"Sir, you have nothing to bet with" –hacking <em>cough</em> – "don't waste my time."</p><p>He slipped the wedding band from his left hand. "How'a..." His fingers shook; he forced them steady. "How about this, then?"</p><p>"Aye, that'll do nicely – long as your missus dun't find out en have your head for it."</p><p>Fanny wouldn't <em>know</em> – he'd win it back, along with his money, and be heading home to her very soon. Besides, if she knew it was for her own sake, for longing to return to her, he convinced himself, she surely would not <em>mind</em>.</p><p>"My wife..." said Tom, quietly, flicking his middle finger against a gaming fish, sending it flipping across the table with a faint, slightly irritable <em>ping</em>, "she... s'not like other men's wives. Her disposition is as sweet as sugar-cane from Antigua. She won't scold."</p><p>"Well, for your own sake, I hope you're right about that, m'boy." Because he held a winning hand, which he showed with glee.</p><p>Tom cursed under his breath, watching his ring disappear.</p><p>"Too bad that's the end of the line for you – better fortune to you next time, eh?"</p><p>Eyes narrowed, Tom reached under the table, moaned and <em>tugged</em>, and – after a moment's manoeuvring – slammed his boots down onto the table. "Deal me into the next hand, mate." He motioned at the pocket the man had tucked the wedding ring into. "Put my ring back on the table, if you please – I intend to reclaim it."</p><p>"As you like – it's <em>your</em> funeral."</p><p>"We'll see about that."</p><p>Two hours later, Tom was walking barefoot down the shore, nothing but the bag of clothes and odds and ends he'd packed before leaving Mansfield in his possession, looking out at the choppy water.</p><hr/><p>Given all she suffered, and the fact that Mrs. Norris made no secret of how she believed her solely responsible for Tom's hasty departure and Susan and Edmund could only offer a degree of protection from her spite as buffers, Fanny Bertram was in little enough mood to be pleased – or even amused by – a complete stranger mistaking her for a servant, but that was precisely what she had to endure less than two days after her husband's abandonment.</p><p>It came about like this.</p><p>Edmund was pacing, heatedly, coming down heavily on his heels with each agitated step, and had been tersely speaking while she and Susan stabbed their needles into their work, looking – poor souls – rather like bumpkins.</p><p>Susan screwed her face in concetration; Fanny's expression, blank and lost, changed very little from moment to moment.</p><p>"If I could only be sure he was in London, I would go myself and bring him back here for you, Fanny." Click, stomp, scuff, click. "Do not think for a moment my being the younger of the two of us would stop me – not knowing the rightness of my actions as I do."</p><p>"I do not doubt it, cousin," she mumbled.</p><p>"But Tom could be almost <em>anywhere</em> – perhaps not Newmarket, not yet, the season's not begun and there would be little to please him at the moment, but he might be any place else one could think of."</p><p>Susan pricked her little finger, having forgotten to employ the use of a thimble. "Ouch."</p><p>"Do be careful, Susan," sighed Edmund; "the last thing we need now is..." and he trailed off, having caught sight of something. "It's not...? I think surely...? By Jove, upon my word – it <em>is</em>!"</p><p>Fanny sat straighter and set her own sewing down; she naturally sensed something of interest, perhaps even to herself, was occurring, given Edmund – after a glance out the window of the former school-room which was now Fanny and Susan's private parlour – suddenly became a fluttering mess of nerves, straightening out his cravat so hurriedly she thought he'd strangle himself and attempting to smooth down his hair which she had never thought – before that moment – stuck up so very much it needed such urgent attending to.</p><p>"It is Miss Crawford," he said next, by way of explanation, breath quite caught in his throat. "And her brother." His cheeks coloured. "I had not realised they'd returned to the Grants at the parsonage. I had rather..." He sighed. "I had rather hoped to have returned to Thornton Lacey before... Before having to see Mary again. Our last conversation was not the most pleasurable I've ever had, to put it lightly. But there is no helping it now. We must be civil and make friends. Come, let us go down and greet them."</p><p>Curiosity overcame Fanny – especially in light of Susan's growing interest in these new visitors, who surely could not be any worse company than Mrs. Norris, mirroring her own – so she did not think of herself for once and did not realise she might appear rather shabby.</p><p>It was not until – when the sisters happened by pure chance to beat Edmund down the stairs and arrive first before the opening front doors – an admittedly short young man who was not very handsome on his own merits, let alone when compared to the Bertram brothers, yet was – for all that – very fashionable-looking and animated of face, thrust a top hat in her direction that Fanny's self-awareness kicked in.</p><p>"Pray be a good girl and tell Mr. Bertram we are here," he said airily, shoving the top hat more emphatically since she hadn't taken it. "We have something of his which has gone astray. Chop, chop, make haste, if you please. We wish to see <em>Mr. Bertram</em>."</p><p>"She's his <em>wife</em>," snapped Susan, indignant. "You are addressing Mrs. Bertram."</p><p>Henry Crawford started. "<em>Goodness</em>!" He had not noticed Susan properly, either, before that exact moment – wearing Julia's cast-off clothes had made her somewhat invisible to him. Much like Mrs. Norris, he had – in a moment of preoccupation – assumed the blonde girl he glimpsed from the corner of his eye must be Julia Bertram. He had private reason for not quite meeting Julia's gaze when it might be helped, though he'd quite convinced himself the coolness between them was more on her end than his own, and had given the matter no more thought.</p><p>"Henry, <em>really</em>!" exclaimed the pretty little brown-headed girl beside him.</p><p>Edmund came down the stairs then, as Mr. Crawford was taking back his hat and smiling, Fanny was bright crimson with mortification, and Susan was scowling defensively. And he had eyes mainly for Mary, who he fancied to be looking at him with unexpected warmth, thus seeing precious little of the situation with a clear view.</p><p>Fanny felt, on top of all else, a flashing pang of jealousy. She could not explain it, even to herself, but she felt keenly that these two – though she had resolved to like them before seeing them up close – particularly Mary – had come to steal away her only true friend apart from Susan.</p><p>Edmund would look less to her comforts when distracted by Miss Crawford.</p><p>She also had a vague warning sense tingling in her spine, which would not be pushed away even as she reminded herself it was severely uncharitable and must be weeded out, singing out how Mary was totally <em>unworthy</em> of him. To lose her dear friend – her only protector – to a worthy, suitable woman might have been endured, she felt, even in the absence of her own love, but to lose him to a woman who he was set on yet seemed his polar opposite in all ways upon even a first meeting...</p><p>Henry, well, <em>Henry</em> was – or so she believed instinctively – worse in his own way... Which had nothing to do with Edmund, really, if she were being honest. There was something <em>off </em>about him. Something which she could not rest her finger upon, nor did she feel she should ever <em>want</em> to.</p><p>Her mind turning back to <em>Mary</em>, however...</p><p><em>Oh, </em>God, thought Fanny, in pure misery, almost forgetting about Henry and the humiliation he inflicted upon her in her growing horror for Edmund's sake, <em>I know how he felt now – I know how Edmund must have felt when he came to Portsmouth and attempted to put an end to the engagement between myself and Tom! It is pure wretchedness through and through. How shall I </em>bear<em> it?</em></p><p>She bore it well enough, though, when she learned – shortly thereafter – any immediate understanding leaning towards a matrimonial direction between Edmund and Mary apart from exaggerated, lopsided pining (mostly on Edmund's part) was not so terribly likely.</p><p>"You must forgive me, Mrs. Bertram," said Henry Crawford, chuckling, giving her an expression he meant to be playful and apologetic but was too much at the expense of her appearance to be the ice-breaker he intended, "I'd wrongly mistaken you for a servant."</p><p>"My brother knew better than to..." Mary sighed and gave Fanny a smile that was decidedly kinder than her brother's. "You see, Henry has this <em>dreadful</em> habit of not looking to see who a missive happens to be addressed to before reading it in a grand hurry – I've scolded him on it a great many times, dear Mrs. Bertram, let me assure you – and we, by a mislaid letter which only this very morning has appeared at the parsonage, along with ourselves, odd as that may be, learned Tom Bertram had been recently married. So he knew perfectly well to expect a wife, a new Mrs. Bertram, in coming here, and he still treated you contemptuously. He does not think as he ought sometimes."</p><p>"Hold on a moment." Edmund blinked rapidly, stepping before Fanny. "Which letter is this?"</p><p>"I have it here," said Henry, and showed it with exaggerated sheepishness. "I believe it was meant for Sir Thomas – I wish so very much I could have replaced the broken seal and might feign innocence, spare us all a great deal of embarrassment, but I have no means of hiding my unwitting crime and thus have to confess it. If I'd known the letter was not for myself I'd never have sliced it open with my paperknife and broken the wax to begin with."</p><p>"He <em>did</em> write to our father," mumbled Edmund, examining the letter with some sorrowfulness. "You were not mistaken, Fanny."</p><p>She nodded – this she'd known already. She wondered only how Edmund could have still held any doubt.</p><p>"Henry, <em>apologise</em>, and <em>properly</em> this time," hissed Mary, elbowing her brother. "And I don't mean for the letter. You've scandalised poor little Mrs. Bertram trying to hand her your silly hat. Ridiculous fop! Why don't you ever <em>think</em>? I could knock your head off at the neck, I really could."</p><p>"Come now, Mary, I've already begged her forgiveness" – in a voice he clearly believed quiet enough not to be heard by Fanny but was not truly so – "and the girl barely looks as if she is <em>out</em>, let alone wed, and her clothes are... What cause had I to think <em>she </em>was Mrs. Bertram? To ask her pardon again will only embarrass us both further."</p><p>Sucking her teeth, Mary spoke up, louder, "And where, might I ask, <em>is</em> your delightful brother?" She beamed at Edmund. "I believe congratulations are in order."</p><p>"I really ought to give <em>him</em> the letter," added Henry, "as he was its writer – he can then give it to his father if he thinks it still relevant."</p><p>Susan balled her hands into fists at her sides. "He is not here."</p><p>"He's left us for a while," Edmund explained, unable to keep the coldness from his voice. "We do not know when to expect him back."</p><p>Fanny could not disguise her distress quickly enough – Mary latched onto it, taking her arm and walking – as if she knew the way already – towards the drawing-room. "Oh, my poor <em>dear</em>!" She shook her head. "So very selfish of our Tom – our flighty Mr. Bertram – to leave you alone with his family – doubtless near-strangers to you yet – and the pair of you newly-weds still! Well, take it as a lesson, dear one – selfishness must always be forgiven, regardless of it being right or wrong, or inflicted by a pigheaded gentleman, because there is no hope of a cure."</p><p><em>Our Tom? Our Mr. Bertram? </em>Our<em>? As in </em>theirs<em>?</em> Fanny marvelled that she could speak so. As if she knew Fanny's husband just as well as she did – as if he somehow belonged equally to the both of them! To be familiar enough to call him <em>pigheaded</em> – near insulting him – in the present company! If this were coming one of Tom's sisters, from Maria or Julia, it might be understandable – girls teased their brothers beyond what was strictly <em>kind</em> and often meant no malice by it, she knew, it was considered normal enough, though nothing should ever have induced <em>her</em> to disrespect <em>William</em> in such a way – but that it should come from <em>Mary Crawford</em>! She hadn't any right. How could she turn Fanny's own private suffering into something about<em> her</em>? How could she dismiss the shame of the current situation so readily? And how could she defend Fanny to her brother first, as she unquestionably <em>had</em>, only to take the wind from her sails and dizzy her with the unsettling mix of impropriety and what was obviously meant to be unabashed kindness?</p><p>No wonder Edmund did not know what to do with himself in Mary's presence! Fanny was scarcely sure herself. She even found, little enough sense as it might make, she liked hearing Mary talk; she was undoubtedly entertaining, though Fanny might – deep down – disagree with each and every word she uttered in her lovely voice. And, in her consideration of all this, Fanny was not taking into account – on her own behalf, as Edmund certainly would – that Mary was extremely pretty with a countenance which gave any who looked at her great pleasure.</p><p>The Crawfords were like cruel lightning which had struck twice.</p><p>Fanny's father – being superstitious, as he was a sailor – held the belief that certain evils always came in threes.</p><p>Tom had left her, without a word – the first evil, or so she judged.</p><p>Henry had come, with the wrong words – the second.</p><p>Mary had come, with too many pretty words – the third.</p><p>Perhaps Mr. Price was cleverer than she'd ever given him credit for. She almost wished she could write her father and ask him what he thought, before she realised, even if this might not be indiscreet of her, he would not think anything of it at all – when she married Tom, Mr. Price stopped thinking of his eldest daughter at all. She had become, the moment Edmund joined their hands together, her husband's worry for ever after.</p><p>And her husband, <em>her</em> Tom – not <em>their </em>Tom, not someone she shared with the Crawfords – apparently never thought of her at all.</p><p>Soon enough, she believed, in light of everything now occurring, <em>Edmund</em> would surely cease to care as well.</p><hr/><p>The rising sun was casting a pinkish-grey streak across the sky over the beach, and Tom sat, eyes bloodshot, bare toes dug deep into the cold, gritty sand, and helped himself to the contents of his snuffbox. It was made of <em>silver</em> – he should have wagered with<em> it </em>at cards, he realised, instead of his wedding ring.</p><p>He only had a little tobacco left, but it was better than nothing.</p><p>Or so he <em>thought</em>, until a sudden breeze mixed some sand into it just as he was snorting it up his right nostril.</p><p>He sputtered wildly, trying to get the feel of burning grit from his nose, when a voice behind him said, "If you are in need of money, I can assist you."</p><p>"Hang it all – wait a dashed moment before requiring my answer, will you? – I've got dry sand going up into my skull." A bit of blood was dribbling from the opposite nostril now. He wiped it away with the back of his wrist, then looked at the speaker – a tall man who might not have been a gentleman, strictly, but was polished enough to be worth noticing. "Oh, yes? What is the rub? About the money, I mean."</p><p>"The rub, my friend, is you'd have to <em>earn</em> it – the rub is <em>work</em>."</p><p>"<em>Damn</em>," said he, but he smiled and rose to his feet, stumbling and falling face-forward to the pitching ground as he did so.</p><hr/><p>As they walked back to the parsonage, Henry Crawford appeared so lost in thought Mary finally grabbed her brother's arm and exclaimed he <em>must</em> tell her what had him so transfixed or she'd never have a moment's happiness for trying to guess.</p><p>"The stars are coming out," said he, walking again.</p><p>"Stars, <em>nothing</em>," Mary argued, clinging stubbornly to his arm and managing to look graceful while doing so. "You never think of stars. The day you become an astronomer, Henry, is the day I dance – in <em>public</em>, no less – with a clergyman."</p><p>"I think Edmund Bertram might tempt you yet, dearest minx," he teased. "He was fawning over you nearly the whole visit. What have you<em> done</em> to the poor man?"</p><p>"Tut, tut – pray, do not change the subject – you are not thinking of looking for Cassiopeia in the sky, and that is a <em>fact</em>; something else has you riveted and consumes your whole mind and being."</p><p>He smiled rakishly, slowing his steps just a little. "If you must know, Mary, I have been trying – with little enough success, I'll confess – to work out what to make of Mrs. Bertram."</p><p>A lesser woman would have stumbled; Mary's feet all but <em>danced</em> and she did not even <em>trip</em>. "Why should you think of Mrs. Bertram?" She arched an eyebrow. "She is, after all, exactly that – <em>Mrs. Bertram</em>. <em>I</em> might think of her – as someone to play with and be amused by – if only she <em>talked</em> a little more, as her sister does, but what interest could she hold for <em>you</em>?"</p><p>"Simply that she is such a mystery! I think she must be an unfeeling, prudish creature, and wish to dismiss her, yet..." He sighed to himself and rolled his eyes heavenward. "Yet it is proving very disagreeable to me to have a woman about who is so difficult to entertain! I never was so long in company with a girl who only sat and looked so grave on me!"</p><p>"You mistook her for a maid-servant, for pity's sake – <em>I</em> would have snubbed you, too."</p><p>"But I was civil and charming after the initial mistake, was I not?"</p><p>"<em>Honestly</em>! Not everyone in the world can be expected to love you – it may do you a little good, this small rejection."</p><p>Grimacing, he considered this. "Perhaps I could concede your point... <em>Perhaps</em>. If only it were from a less well-looking woman. If she were homely, if she were more crass than she is, if her bearing was not so pleasant and her skin not good and her graces – if rough around the edges – not apparent, I should accept it."</p><p>"Foolish fellow," she cried; "what nonsense!"</p><p>"It's not nonsense," protested Henry, and he nearly – just nearly – looked truly forlorn. "Her eyes say she shall not like me, that she is determined as much as anyone who cannot matter to her will ever be determined upon not to like me." He chuckled to himself. "Well, those light eyes of hers can say what they like – for <em>I</em> say I <em>shall</em> get her to like me."</p><p>"Could you not be satisfied with the fact that – recently enough – both her cousins liked you?" She lowered her voice. "And – also – despite being married, despite being Mrs. Rushworth, I would argue Maria likes you <em>still </em>even if Julia does not? And if you <em>must</em> have someone here and now, might you not do better to like <em>Susan Price</em> best, over Fanny Bertram?"</p><p>"I'm afraid not." He pouted prettily, his handsome brow creased in a manner he knew to be extremely becoming. "My mind is quite made up."</p><p>"She's married to Tom Bertram – the future master of Mansfield Park – don't go forgetting that in all your love games."</p><p>"Why, that only secures the harmlessness of what I'm doing!" His teeth showed in a broad smile, all white and pearly and perfectly glittering. "She shall have to like me without expecting anything to come of such liking."</p><p>"<em>Well</em>" – Mary blew out her cheeks in defeat – "I can attempt no further remonstrance, then, can I?"</p><p>And, as they were in sight of the parsonage and the conversation was growing stale, Mary – thinking little enough of it, believing herself exonerated by her earlier protest – left Fanny Bertram to her fate, little though she believed the innocent girl actually <em>deserved</em> it.</p><hr/><p>"Fanny, what are you doing – standing and staring at the window!"</p><p>She whirled to see Mrs. Norris standing behind her, looking cross but at the same time unusually subdued.</p><p>"I–" she managed, before Mrs. Norris, who'd started, in a tone which was not as nasty as it might have been, "You'll catch cold and then–" saw what Fanny was looking at. "Ah, I see now what you've been about – you're watching Miss Crawford leave us."</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>"Well, you might have said so at once," Mrs. Norris sighed, "rather than leave anyone seeing you gawking in suspense, you know – it's not a crime to watch good company departing."</p><p>Fanny almost suspected Mrs. Norris meant to be <em>kind</em>, genuinely <em>kind</em> to her, for the very first time since they'd met, and she found herself holding her breath in anticipation.</p><p>"Indeed, you might learn much from Miss Crawford – to a reasonable degree."</p><p>She exhaled sadly, her hope of charity from this aunt dimming already. The tone being employed was growing sharp again, and Fanny – for all her pretty wishful thinking – couldn't trust this woman not to jab with her words and twist in for added emphasis.</p><p>"You know, Fanny, there was a time – not so very long ago – when we all had hopes – that is very nearly all of us – Tom would ask Miss Crawford to marry him." She tsked and shook her head. "I suppose, since we were all hoping, also, that her brother would ask for Julia's hand – and it never quite happened, somehow – Tom avoided posing the question to save his sister the embarrassment of the brother-in-law she'd inherit."</p><p>Did Mrs. Norris, Fanny wondered, in silent amazement, really not know <em>Edmund </em>was in love with Mary Crawford? No one with the slightest discernment could have missed it – not for a moment. Edmund, not unlike herself, simply could not <em>act</em> – he played the part of disinterest horridly, wholly unconvincing. Had it truly never occurred to her aunt Tom might have been sparing <em>Edmund</em> more than he was Julia, if he ever had considered Mary?</p><p>Which, in itself, was doubtful enough.</p><p>Fanny never did believe herself half so beautiful as Tom had sometimes pronounced her to be in private moments of affection (he was not always the picture of sobriety when rhapsodising about how she was a 'diamond of the first water', for one thing), but she was aware that any personal charm she held was the opposite of Mary's. Tom clearly had a fondness for light features over dark ones, if he was drawn to <em>her</em>. It stood only to reason. Whereas Edmund's tastes seemed to run in the opposite direction – so much so that if Mary had been more reserved, more guileless and thoughtful, as complimentary to Edmund in mind as she was in body, Fanny would have thought them made for one another by God's own hands.</p><p>Thus she could only conclude Mrs. Norris set Tom's name alongside Mary's in this unlooked-for conversation purely as a manner of personal shaming, not from any real belief – even a delusional one – Tom would have married her.</p><p>"It would have been a very good match, all the same," lamented Mrs. Norris. "I'm sure if they had wed Tom would spend more time at home. We should see him much more often if he had a different sort of woman for a wife."</p><p>Fanny was <em>stung</em> – tears pricked her eyes.</p><p>"But <em>do</em> try to learn from her, my dear – that is, if you <em>can</em>, considering who and what you are."</p><p>And she left her there, a little farther from the window than she'd originally stood, broken and lonely, until Susan came along and put her arms around her sister.</p><p>"She's said something to you again, hasn't she – our Aunt Norris?" spat Susan, rubbing her back consolingly. "Think no more of it, please; she's a spiteful old cat. That's all she is."</p><p>"It's so ironic," whispered Fanny.</p><p>"What is?" Susan's forehead crinkled.</p><p>"Giving him up – Tom, I mean – would have hurt less than<em> this</em>."</p><p>"Oh, Fanny, I'm sorry."</p><p>"We need <em>help</em>, Susie," she rasped out, choking on sobs as she buried her face in Susan's warm shoulder, "we're in too far over our heads in this house – why does no one<em> help</em> us?"</p><p>"Perhaps," she said, softly, wanting to be truthful yet at the same time wishing – above all else – to inflict no further pain on her suffering sister, "it's only because you never <em>ask</em>."</p><hr/><p>A letter for a certain John Yates (stamped with Weymouth postmarks) arrived in London, and he paid for it and read its contents while enjoying rather a good breakfast.</p><p>
  <em>Yates,</em>
</p><p><em>I find myself stranded – quite abominably </em>stranded<em>, with no way home – in Weymouth.</em></p><p>
  <em>This follows some small folly on my part, but – I ardently assure you – nothing so evil it was ever deserving of my falling into this current state of degradation.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Without depressing your ever jovial spirit too deeply, allow me to tell you that I am, more or less, shackled by debt to a damnable, dirty little tavern – and I write this letter with a cramped hand by the light of a cracked windowpane – working myself to the bone. I'm loath to tell anyone I am of the gentry, for if my current situation should reach my father's ears, I should never hear the end of it, but it also means I can expect no special treatment.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My heart, meanwhile, is far away in Mansfield Park, and my chances of being reunited with it once again... Well, they're far from being in my favour.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I cannot bear to write anyone else. For friendship's sake, man, come and fetch me – I beg you to come as speedily as you can and rescue a fellow gentleman in need.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope this shall indeed reach you and, when it does, you have the good sense to pay for its delivery – as, admittedly, old bean, you have done for past concurrences – for, as you see, I could not frank it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With urgency,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>T. Bertram</em>
</p><hr/><p>Edmund sat at the writing desk in Julia's room, composing a letter of his own, which was to be directed to the congregation in Thornton Lacey.</p><p>A small intake of breath behind him made him set down his quill and push back the chair, looking to Fanny – appearing as a tiny little slip of a thing – in the doorway.</p><p>"Ah, Fanny – I've made some arrangements so that I might stay here at Mansfield a while longer, given the circumstances." He motioned over his shoulder, at the letter drying on the desk. "Mr. Elton from Highbury will be taking my place at Thornton Lacey for a short while." A small hint of worry flittered across his pensive face. "Now, to be <em>sure</em>, I'd have greatly preferred Mr. Tilney, who I think is more serious-minded and a better example in my stead – Elton can be a bit, well, <em>silly</em> – but Henry's wife is expecting another child and I fear this would not be the time to ask favours of him – not so very near poor Catherine's lying-in."</p><p>Fanny smiled, then she played with her fingers for a moment, gathering up her courage.</p><p>"What <em>is</em> it?" His tone was gentle, waiting. "You really are so <em>pale </em>today."</p><p>She motioned down at herself, at her old Portsmouth clothes, and then looked pointedly about the grand bedroom. "I don't know what I'm doing here." She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, bracing herself to accept that he might say <em>no</em> – that, especially with the Crawfords in residence – he might have more important things to consider than her lack of education. "Will you help me?"</p><p>Edmund's expression melted from one of tight concern into one of fond doting. Rising from the chair, he held out his hands to her. "Of <em>course</em>, Fanny – of course I'll help you."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Commissions & Lessons, For Good or For Ill</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Eighteen:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Commissions &amp; Lessons, For Good or For Ill</em>
</p><p>"Oi, <em>Lord Byron</em>, how's about gettin' off your fancy arse and clearing a table every once in a while?"</p><p>"Mmm, what's that?" Shifting in the corner of the tavern, Tom Bertram glanced up coyly from the sketchbook he was using the last remaining stub of his charcoal to draw in. "D'you need something?" He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his wrist.</p><p>"And how, might I ask" – and this was the tall man, now approaching, who had found Tom on the beach, days and days ago, perhaps weeks by now, as it all seemed to blend together so, snorting more sand than tobacco up his nose – "is the new fellow I found for you working out?"</p><p>The tavern owner threw up his hands. "Well..." <em>cough, cough</em>. "Let's <em>see</em>, shall we?" He began counting sarcastically on his broad, splayed fingers. "He's lazy – he's indolent – he usually sits around mooning and sighing to himself, getting nothin' done – quite often he pretends as he can't hear us when he doesn't want'a do somethin' – he takes food and drink from the patrons' plates and glasses without askin' – he won't give us his name, so we all are obliged as to nickname him Lord Byron, despite the fact he don't look a bloody thing like him, way I hear it – and sometimes he takes sick in the back room and doesn't clean up after himself."</p><p>"Bit of a disappointment, then, eh?"</p><p>The tavern owner looked taken aback. "Ye havin' a go at me? Upon my word, he's the best, most dedicated lad who's ever dipped too deep you've yet to drag before me in the name'o charity! Never had a better worker here since my grandfather's time." He winced, then, his expression crumpling. "And that's so depressing, I may have to go off and weep somewhere." He pressed a hand to his left temple and began to walk towards the back room. "Excuse me, mates."</p><p>"Oh, what does anything <em>matter</em>?" sighed Tom, blinking languidly and lolling his head back as he ran his smudged fingers along the edge of the sketchbook page. "My hopes are all for naught... What changes in this cruel world if I never rise from this corner? I shan't save enough money to leave this place; I'm never again to see my dearest..."</p><p>"I've come with a letter," rang a voice from the tavern's doorway.</p><p>Suddenly possessing remarkable perkiness, downright <em>buoyancy of spirit</em>, Tom sprang to his feet. "Is it for <em>me</em>? Give it here."</p><p>The man who'd gotten him the job at the tavern rolled his eyes and took the letter gingerly between his fingers. "It's mine – from my solicitor in London – not everything is about you."</p><p><em>Yates</em>, thought Tom, sinking back dejectedly, <em>come and fetch me already, damn you!</em></p><p>The – rather well-looking – man who'd brought the letter in studied Tom and his still-open sketchbook for a moment. "What have you drawn here?" His brow lifted and he reached for it. "May I?"</p><p>Tom shrugged.</p><p>"You've drawn an exquisite pair of hands here," he remarked silkily. "The fine fingers and the dainty, womanly shape – there's something distinctly sensual about the manner in which you've gone about committing them to paper." Giving a little frown of concentration, he added, "But one matter perplexes me. Why are the knuckles splayed and fingers curled so tight while the wrists hang slack?"</p><p>"That's how she holds them," said Tom, shrugging again.</p><p>"<em>She</em>?" Now he appeared truly interested. "Am I to understand these are the hands of a real person? Not a mere figment of your imagination?"</p><p>"They are the hands of my <em>wife</em>," Tom admitted in a softer tone. They were, indeed, Fanny's hands, as he remembered them.</p><p>"Do you only sketch, or can you paint portraits as well?"</p><p>"Yes, I <em>can</em> paint, if I've got the supplies." Which, he implied with an arched eyebrow, he, as of the moment, did not.</p><p>"<em>Fascinating</em> – and how do you like working here?"</p><p>"I do not like it at all."</p><p>"Well, then, I see a most agreeable solution for the both of us." He beamed. "Come and work for <em>me</em> – paint a portrait of my girls, and I shall pay you double what you are making here. Triple, if I really fancy the end result. The supplies will be given you free of charge, naturally." The corners of his mouth lifted, curling upwards. "What say you?"</p><p>"I think that would indeed be most agreeable." Tom struggled to keep his whole body from sagging in relief and disguised his reaction by pretending to stretch as he rose from his place. "I'll go with you whenever you like."</p><p>"I would be correct, I think," said he, "in assuming you are actually a gentleman...?"</p><p>Tom feigned exaggerated ignorance. "<em>Moi</em>?"</p><p>He winked. "We'll be discreet, shall we?"</p><p>The tall man snagged his arm and urgently whispered, "Don't go with him, my friend."</p><p>Rolling his eyes, Tom brushed the man's grip off with sharp impatience. "<em>Hem</em>. I thank you for your concern, and your earlier assistance – such as it was – but I assure you I'll be quite all right."</p><p>"I know what you think he's asking of you," hissed the tall man through his teeth, grabbing him again, "but you are mistaken – he does not have <em>daughters</em>."</p><p>Tom did not comprehend his meaning, and – in all honesty – assumed he must be a bit mad. Of <em>course</em> the chap who was offering him the commission to paint a portrait had daughters! He'd <em>said</em> as much, hadn't he? Who else could he possibly mean by 'his girls'? The tall man must be addled in the head.</p><p>"I'll be <em>fine</em>," he insisted, shaking him off more firmly. "<em>Thank you</em>."</p><hr/><p>The first part of Edmund's attempt to educate Fanny, to help her fit in more with the class she had married into, pleased both Fanny and Susan greatly – they had always been more generally inclined towards reading than the other girls in Portsmouth, particularly Lucy Gregory's set, and had lacked only the extended opportunity and guidance to thrive in their selection of books.</p><p>Edmund's tutelage was thus warmly welcomed, and he was – in turn – most relieved and delighted to discover that the worst which could be said about their knowledge was there were a few – admittedly wide – gaps in it. They might know an inordinate amount about figures they had found books on, such as Joan of Arc or Mary of Scots, and they could to-be or not-to-be better even than Tom (they had the patience and retention and smoothness of speech Edmund's elder brother decidedly lacked), but several classics were strangers to their minds and non-fiction beyond the more popular history might have been a tea-shop in France for all they knew of it.</p><p>Susan did express some small doubt that any mere<em> reading</em> was going to change her sister's current sorry situation at Mansfield Park, though she did not object to the lessons in the least for their own sake, but Fanny trusted Edmund implicitly. If he said it would help – overall, somehow or other – she believed him.</p><p>Lessons in etiquette were more immediately practical than they were enjoyable, and both sisters endured them stoically, but – particularly for Fanny – they proved a source of intense retrospective distress. Ignorance had, in some small ways, been an unwitting bliss – now that they knew the nature of this or that faux pas they must be humiliated by in future, it occurred more readily in their shocked minds how many times they had slipped in the past. Fanny blushed to think she had never been corrected before, and here she was, all grown and married and making mistakes a child of the Bertrams' world would have avoided by the age of <em>eleven</em>.</p><p>Although she knew what Mrs. Norris said, about Tom being home more if he had a different sort of wife, was not <em>true</em>, a small part of Fanny's broken heart did wonder, now, if her husband did not find her somewhat vulgar compared with his own family and peers. He did not strike her as the sort to care too much about such things, but – just the same – she could not imagine he was <em>blind</em> to it, could only conclude he was simply silent on the matter – perhaps as she herself would have been, had their roles been reversed. Regarding this fear, she consoled herself a little with the notion that vulgarity of manner might reasonably be improved upon, while incurable selfishness <em>lingered</em> unchangingly in most cases. Mary Crawford did not strike her as a giving person, and Tom was a taker both by nature and nurture alike – a marriage between them, had it occurred as Mrs. Norris evidently wanted, would hardly have been a happy one for very long even if they managed to begin it on amiable footing. Two equally selfish people can never contribute to the contentment of a union, because neither would be willing to bend their own will for the sake of the other.</p><p>Edmund's patience (and, in certain cases, inventiveness, even creating a pretend make-shift dining room in the school-room – now returned to its former use, rather than simply a parlour for them all to sit in and whisper between themselves – for practice) soothed away the worst of the lingering embarrassment, however, and allowed Fanny to look to the future with hope. She came to believe she might win, eventually, despite sour introductions, the good opinion of her father-in-law, Sir Thomas Bertram, even if her Aunt Norris remained forever prejudiced against her.</p><p>She had not anticipated – though she might have done, if she gave it thought enough from Edmund's prospective – <em>Mary Crawford</em> being drawn into these lessons. Fanny had reasoned, fleetingly, that Mary was too old and refined to want to sit in on such instructions herself, regardless of how bored she might be with the countryside, and seeing as Edmund truly seemed to know all, including how a woman of their class must hold their fans and fold their napkins, <em>they</em> could surely have no real need of <em>her</em>, either.</p><p>Yet, one morning, she did indeed arrive on the threshold of the school-room with Susan to discover Mary already within, whispering with Edmund, awaiting their entrance.</p><p>She stiffened, and Edmund, with a trace of apology in his voice – not for the person he'd brought, for he privately suspected no one with sense or wit could <em>object</em> to Miss Crawford's company in general, but for the fact that he'd dragged someone else in at all – said, "Forgive me, Fanny, but I had to ask her – I can do nothing myself regarding your clothes, save tell you if I looks correct after it has been arranged. I was not even sure if my own usual tailors would do for you. And here I had faithfully promised to help you in any way I could. Miss Crawford, I knew, would be only too delighted to be asked. You must know that all the good bearing and genteel mannerisms in the world would still look very odd with the wrong kind of clothing accompanying it."</p><p>"Come," said Mary, taking her hand and signalling for Edmund and Susan to follow behind, "we shall go to your room" – she was shortly to be astonished to learn it was actually <em>Edmund's </em>old room, having not realised Fanny was not yet officially in residence of Tom's chambers – "and together we'll make an account of what your wardrobe is lacking."</p><p>Fanny, with unsteady hands, set her dresses out on the bed and stepped back so Mary could examine them.</p><p>"Good lord, is this best you've got?" Miss Crawford grimaced, pointing as if she had just been presented with an unasked-for portrait of a scene most gruesome.</p><p>Susan looked as if she very much wanted to say something in her sister's defence, perhaps a remark which pointed out that at least – in comparison to Lucy Gregory's set – Fanny was not over-trimmed or gaudy, only held back by the fact that Fanny herself shot her a brief, urgent expression which seemed to tell how she wished nothing to be said on her behalf, as if she was mortified quite enough already.</p><p>"<em>Miss Crawford</em>," murmured Edmund, shaking his head. "I know you can intend no unkindness, but <em>do</em> have a care."</p><p>"Pray, don't mistake me," added Mary, then, quickly, as she struggled to regain composure, "I do not mean to <em>insult</em>" – she gave the sisters her prettiest, most agreeable smile – "I'm sure they did you no disservice at all when you were <em>Miss Price</em>, Fanny, and that your family was doubtless very good to provide you with them, but as Mrs. Bertram, they simply will never, never do."</p><p>"<em>This</em>, you must have known already," Edmund said softly, patting Fanny's arm. "You did <em>ask</em>."</p><p>Fanny swallowed, blinked, and nodded.</p><p>"And what," said Susan, speaking at last, "do you suggest we do with Fanny's old things, Miss Crawford?" She knew the house-maids of Mansfield Park would not want her sister's Portsmouth cast-offs – perhaps not even for polishing rags.</p><p>"<em>Do with them</em>?" cried Mary, voice cracking from holding back some emotion – perhaps shock or mirth – as she steadied herself against the bed-post. "You cannot be serious, my dear Miss Price! <em>Do with them</em>! They must all be gotten rid of at once – <em>burned</em>, preferably, so that no one of discerning taste shall ever have to look upon them again."</p><p>"<em>My dear Miss Crawford...</em>" warned Edmund, through his teeth. "Season your words with salt."</p><p>"Unless you wish Fanny to walk about in her undergarments," said Susan, rather tightly, "that's perhaps ill-advised."</p><p>Mary laughed. "The trouble with that being most of her undergarments are equally unsuitable. She ought to have her under-things and corsets and stockings all done up new and proper as well."</p><p>Fanny was scarlet.</p><p>"Oh, Mr. Bertram, are you <em>sure</em>," said Mary imploringly, lifting two dresses and tossing them onto the carpet, making a pile, "positively<em> certain</em>, Fanny cannot wear something of Maria's just for a little while? There seems to be nothing here she could even meet respectable tailors and seamstresses in if they were called to the house."</p><p>"Do <em>you </em>wish to pose such a suggestion to my Aunt Norris?" Edmund pointed out, blowing his cheeks with barely restrained exasperation.</p><p>"Hmm, I do<em> see</em> – but she's just the slightest bit too tall for anything of <em>mine</em>." Mary giggled to herself, tossing another dress onto the pile. "Henry teases me I'm built like a little brownie from a fairy-tale. You really mustn't imagine he goes easy on me because I'm his sister; he teases all women so indiscriminately."</p><p>Fanny scarcely heard, let alone cared, what she was saying about Henry Crawford; she'd noticed only that the dress under the one Mary had just tossed onto the pile was the sole one she'd miss if taken away – the only one she was resolved to intercede on behalf of.</p><p>"<em>No</em>," she blurted, stepping forward, a hand outstretched. "No, Miss Crawford, not that one – <em>please</em>."</p><p>"Mmm?" Mary looked at the revealed dress, noticing it properly for the first time. "<em>Oh</em>!" She took in the white muslin and glass beads and her expression changed, relaxing. "This is not so very bad – you might have shown me this one at the first and given me some hope – I've had a dress something like this one myself."</p><p>Fanny lowered her hand. "It was my wedding dress."</p><p>"Well, in that case, you must put it on for us all to see," Mary declared. "It is the only gown here the wife of a future baronet need not be ashamed of." Her eyes darted to the cross dangling from the chain about Fanny's neck. "Have you any other jewellery to go with it?"</p><p>She shook her head.</p><p>"Never mind, then. There is nothing truly amiss with your cross and chain, save that they are very simple-looking – I'd only asked to be sure of what options we <em>had</em>, you know – they are both very well."</p><p>Taking the gown into her arms and cradling the shimmering fabric protectively despite the fact that it was clearly in no danger, Fanny changed behind a screen.</p><p>Susan, circling her after she stepped out to show them all, was concerned she'd lost weight, thinking the dress hung a good deal looser on her poor sister's frame than it had in Portsmouth on her wedding day, but Fanny was certain she was not so altered.</p><p>Mary, coming behind her and skilfully grasping her fair hair and pinning it up, stepped back and examined the effect, now that hair and dress were both acceptable. "<em>Lovely</em>," she declared, as if she herself had had a great deal more to do with this than merely having pinned up a fistful of golden curls and tucked back a couple of small plaits. "Much better."</p><p>"She looks very fine, as women in white always do," Edmund agreed. "It is well done."</p><p>"I had not realised," Mary marvelled, "she resembled the current Lady Bertram so closely – her sister's child or no, it is <em>most</em> striking." She chuckled, a touch suggestively. "One does not <em>say</em> – not aloud, not to a larger group than our little party – that our Tom may have, most unexpectedly, something of Oedipus Rex in his nature. I would not ever <em>dream </em>of saying so."</p><hr/><p>In the darkness of the bedroom, hours after Mary Crawford had left them, Susan lolled at the foot of the bed, dangling off the side of the mattress, while Fanny sat by the fire and played with the fraying fringes of her old shawl which she had – with more effort than she really had the energy to be putting forth – persuaded Mary to let her keep for the time being, despite her insistence on its shabbiness.</p><p>On the desk – a jutting shadow from Susan's current peripheral view – was a neat list, detailed in several pages, of precisely what Fanny would need, from pelisses and muffs (Fanny had not thought a muff a priority, but both Mary and Edmund insisted a good pelisse would be sure to look incomplete without one) to summer dresses and evening gowns and undergarments and gloves and hats.</p><p>For all her faults, one could not accuse Mary Crawford of being less than thorough.</p><p>"Susie," said Fanny, quiet and thoughtfully, "who do you think is going to pay for all the things Miss Crawford says I need?"</p><p>Susan blinked. Truly, the question had never crossed her mind. "Tom, I suppose."</p><p>"We don't even know where he <em>is</em>."</p><p>"Uncle Bertram, then."</p><p>"Aunt Norris will know if the bill goes to him," Fanny pointed out. "And she'll be angry with us because of the expense." She paused, gazing into the fire again. "She comes in here – and up into your attic-room – and counts how many logs we use, and then she tells Sir Thomas after breakfast, you know."</p><p>Susan groaned, rolled over, and propped herself up onto her elbows. "You need <em>clothes</em>, Fanny."</p><p>"Clothes, yes," she agreed, "but matching hats in every colour? I fear it may be too bold a request just now."</p><p>"You are Mrs. Bertram," Susan pointed out. "You're not..." She bit her lower lip. "You're not <em>me</em> – you ought to matter here."</p><p>"I suppose," mumbled Fanny. Then, "And what did you think of Miss Crawford today?"</p><p>Susan swallowed. "The truth?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"I was cross with her," Susan confessed, glancing over her shoulder. "You don't suppose Edmund can hear us? I know he likes her a great deal..."</p><p>"The walls are too thick in this house."</p><p>"<em>Right</em>. Then, I will say I think Mary is too vain for her own good, and she doesn't mind how she speaks to you."</p><p>"Why should she?"</p><p>"Because you outrank her, technically."</p><p>"She was raised a lady."</p><p>"I don't care if she was raised by <em>Queen Charlotte</em>," hissed Susan, suddenly passionate. "What she said about <em>Tom</em>..." She coloured vividly in the half-light, shadowed cheeks aflame. "Implying he married you because you look like his <em>mother</em>."</p><p>"It wasn't <em>right</em> of her, I'm sure," Fanny had to agree, "to say such things – and I do think if Edmund knew she was not only jesting, if he suspected she <em>meant</em> half of what she says, it would break his heart – but think how <em>we</em> must seem to <em>her</em>. She might not even realise Edmund is giving us so many things to read, or that we read in Portsmouth at all – she might have supposed us strangers to Oedipus. It may have been a private joke for <em>herself</em>, though spoken aloud."</p><p>"It was <em>wicked</em> of her," Susan said firmly. "Whatever she <em>thinks or means</em>, she <em>speaks</em> evil. The rest doesn't <em>matter</em>."</p><hr/><p>Despite having to wriggle back into his dry – slightly sandy – clothes rather defeating the purpose of bathing in the sea, Tom Bertram was walking along the shore feeling quite refreshed; his wet hair was plastered unbecomingly to one side of his head, and he still hadn't any boots, yet he strode with purpose.</p><p>In less than an hour, he was to meet his commissioner again and to be taken to his holiday home. He imagined this would be a pleasant job, comparatively cushy, and – with newly lined pockets once the work was completed – he'd, soon enough, be en route back to Mansfield Park – back to Fanny.</p><p>Back, also, to his father and Edmund, but he tried not to dwell on<em> that</em>.</p><p>He glanced up, then, lifting his free arm to shade his eyes from the glare of the sun, and saw a pretty young lady – somewhere, he gauged, in shape and colouring, just between Fanny's light willowy form and Mary Crawford's small, dark and bright features – was seated on a rock a few feet away, reading a letter which she gazed upon with moistened eyes.</p><p>Tom halloed good-naturedly.</p><p>The lady started and looked up, surprised but not unduly alarmed by the sudden appearance of the fair man with the open shirt carrying a sand-smeared leather bag tucked under one arm, eyeing her with innocent curiosity.</p><p>"Good news?" he asked merrily, motioning at the letter.</p><p>She gave him a reserved, polite smile.</p><p>"It's not a death, I think," Tom mused, his pacing feet making a slight circle around her in the sand surrounding her rock, "or your tears would be of the less attractive sort and I'd be expected to give you my condolences. And no postmarks implies it was hand-delivered. Perhaps by the writer himself."</p><p>"No, sir, indeed, it is not a death."</p><p>"Ah, a proposal, then."</p><p>She did not reply, and <em>that</em> was very nearly reply enough in and of itself. If she were Fanny, she would have blushed and given herself away entirely, but she was not given over to easy colouring.</p><p>"Word of advice, miss – don't keep the poor fellow in suspense." He grinned tightly to himself. "It nearly killed me, waiting on my own wife's answer. You women ought to have pity on the more boorish sex; we don't have your patience or reason. The longer we wait, the more hopeless we become. And hopeless, tormented men behave stupidly sometimes."</p><p>"I do not intend to torment him," said she; "I've simply not yet decided how I must reply."</p><p>"What is the rub? Is he too lowly for you?"</p><p>"Quite the opposite – I am the one who lacks the fortune in this match."</p><p>"Ah, I <em>see</em>" – his lips were pursed pensively – "so the letter itself is not to your liking?"</p><p>Seeming mildly unsure of herself, as if this were not something she meant to do, not a thing she would usually do, she reached upwards and handed Tom the letter. There was just something about him, something separate enough from the rest of high society to believe he would not betray her. "See for yourself, sir."</p><p>He studied the letter a moment. "<em>Frank Churchill</em> is the man, is he?" His eyebrows lifted. "Well, good for you! There's that frightful aunt of his, of course – I was nailed to a card-table with her once, for several hours, and it was ghastly – but otherwise you'll be happy enough."</p><p>She was not one for such remarks herself, about as prone to gossip as she was to blushing, but neither could she cut off the conversation now. "And the letter itself?"</p><p>"<em>Good</em>," Tom declared, handing it back to her. "So good, in fact, I imagine he enlisted some outside help in writing it – the Honourable John Yates and I could put our heads together for three days and still not come up with anything half so pretty."</p><p>"I do believe I will say yes – but please, on your word as a gentleman, tell no one... His aunt cannot hear of it."</p><p>Tom smirked. "How can I tell anyone when I've passed you in silence on the beach and only nodded to you as I walked on my merry way? I never even saw your letter, as I recall it, Miss...?"</p><p>She exhaled in relief. "Fairfax."</p><p>"I'm Tom Bertram." His left eye twitched into a faint wink. "But don't tell anyone."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yes, that was (very unsubtly) Jane Fairfax from Emma Tom was talking to at the end there.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Impropriety, Such As It Can Be</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Nineteen:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Impropriety, Such As It Can Be</em>
</p><p>"Right this way, through those doors."</p><p>"Ah, yes, thank you; I'm sure I can manage." Tom nodded and curled his fingers around the brass handle, pulling down and flinging the doors open with a cheerful flourish.</p><p>He was just thinking how very nice and airy – if a little devoid of modern furnishings – he was finding his commissioner's modest holiday house, pondering what a spot of good fortune he was having, wondering if he ought to go into the portrait business full-time (regardless of how his father would doubtless react to such a shocking career choice) if things always ran so smoothly as all this, when a series of breathy gasps and giggles reached his ears and he realised, with a start, he was in the presence of half a dozen unclothed women.</p><p>"Oh, eh, dreadfully sorry..." He would have tipped his hat, if he'd been wearing one. "I hadn't been informed anyone was in here already. I've walked in on you lot dressing, it would seem." He turned halfway and averted his eyes, feeling behind himself for the door-handle. "Please forgive the intrusion. I'll come back once you're all changed into whatever it is you intend to wear for the portrait."</p><p>The giggling got louder, the tittering girls now whispering amongst one another.</p><p><em>Why</em>, Tom wondered, slightly annoyed, weren't these blasted models behaving as he imagined normal females would? What was <em>wrong</em> with these women? Why weren't they shrieking and scattering and fumbling to cover themselves the way he knew his sisters would in a similar situation? Maria, bless her, would probably threaten to have the portrait artist sacked if one ever walked in on her undressed – he didn't want <em>that</em>, of course, but some sense of decorum and normality might have been nice. It would have made him feel less awkward, at any rate. But there wasn't a single rustling garment to be heard, only that ceaseless<em> giggling</em>.</p><p>"That <em>is</em> what they're wearing for the portrait." His commissioner suddenly stood behind him, holding up a decanter and two glasses, one of which he motioned to hand Tom. "<em>Nothing</em>."</p><p>"Oh, God, <em>yes</em>." Tom accepted the glass and had the man fill it to the brim, taking a long swallow before considering what was just said. "<em>Oh</em>." He smacked his lips together and – putting a fist to his abdomen and coughing – <em>belched</em>. "Right..." he wheezed out. "So... They're... You're..." He whirled and pointed at one of the women, a handsome wench of perhaps seventeen, whose skin was roughly the same colour as the one house-servant he'd associated with in Antigua. "I'm going to be presumptuous here and assume <em>you're</em> definitely not his daughter."</p><p>She giggled and said something to another of the women under her breath.</p><p>Tom grimaced. He remembered, then, what was said to him when he – with too much haste, evidently – accepted this commission, the advice he'd been so quick to dismiss as coming from an addled crackpot: <em>you are mistaken, he does not have </em>daughters<em>.</em></p><p><em>Mercy</em>.</p><p>"None of you are. Oh dear."</p><p>"Is that going to be a problem?"</p><p>"<em>Erm</em>..." Tom cleared his throat and glanced – with faint sheepishness – from his commissioner, to the ready supplies set by an easel a few feet away, to the unclothed women. "Could I possibly get some more of whatever<em> this</em> was before I answer that question? It's bloody <em>fantastic</em>." He shook his near-empty glass emphatically.</p><p>"Certainly."</p><p>Tom downed the refilled glass, thought of the money, reassured himself it was only a job, nothing more, a means of getting home to the one woman he actually wouldn't mind sketching unclothed, and – inhaling deeply – finally said, "I'll do it, but I will, of course, insist upon being paid half the agreed amount upfront."</p><p>One of the women – a <em>girl</em>, really – probably the youngest in the room, perhaps Susan's age (which Tom still very much considered a child), seemed to find this funny and – rather than the grating giggling and tittering she and the others had previously been doing up until now – let out a <em>real</em> laugh, complete with a riotous snort.</p><p>Wanting to make her laugh for real again, if he could, Tom decided to keep going, in a tone with exaggerated pompousness, watching her reaction out of the corner of his eye. "And, naturally, in addition to upfront payment, I will require the windows to be opened – I want to feel like I'm standing on the damn <em>sun</em> when I walk into this room every morning to paint – and those plants over there must be moved, because I don't fancy looking at them."</p><p>It <em>worked</em> – the girl had to put her hand over her mouth to keep in another round of snorts; her bare shoulders shook wildly. Tom felt rather proud of himself.</p><p>His commissioner agreed to give him a quarter of the agreed upon amount up front, and not a 'bloody farthing' more. "And the plants stay exactly where they <em>are</em>, and you'll learn to love looking at them or else you're back in the tavern clearing tables."</p><p>Tom brought it down a smidgeon. "<em>Hem</em>. Yes, sir. As you like."</p><p>"Now, I would prefer it if you started any preliminary sketching you need to do before you begin the portrait at once – there's no need to wait for the last of my girls to arrive. She's coming all the way from London, you see, as a special favour to me."</p><p>"Oh, there's another, is there?" asked Tom, picking up a charcoal stick and twirling it between his fingers. "Makes <em>seven</em> – bit uneven, from an artistic standpoint, if you ask me."</p><p>"She can go in the middle – three on either side of her – she's the eldest."</p><p>Tom considered. "Yes, I imagine that would work right enough." He blinked pensively. "It should look very well."</p><p>The commissioner gave him a pat on the shoulder. "<em>Good</em> – get to work." To the women, with a snap of his fingers, he said, "You lot, <em>places</em>."</p><p>Most of them fell into place and stayed still, though one kept arching her back and finding excuses to move and stretch, trying to get Tom's attention, eventually deciding it to be a lost cause and settling in rather morosely.</p><p>Hell, they do say, hath no fury like a woman scorned.</p><p>The youngest – the one who'd laughed – disappeared after a quarter of an hour, and Tom was about to ask where the devil she'd gone, when she reappeared with a plate of food for him – some cheese, a bunch of grapes, and a chicken leg – setting it down beside his art supplies and scampering back to her place with the others.</p><p>"Oh, thank you," he said, without glancing up from his sketching, "that's very thoughtful." He wondered, a mere second after speaking, if she had gone undressed into the kitchen – wherever in this house it happened to be located – to fetch it, or if she'd had the sense to put a dressing-gown of some kind over herself first and avoid draughts. "Don't catch a chill on my behalf." Heaven help him, he sounded not unlike his <em>grandfather</em>, when he said that, he realised – a fussy old man (also called Thomas, like himself and his father) he just barely remembered from when he was very, very small.</p><p>"Well, upon my word, what have we here?"</p><p>Tom tensed. He knew that voice – he <em>knew</em> it – but from <em>where</em>?</p><p>"Mr. Bertram?"</p><p>He hunched up, slumping forward on his stool, and avoided eye-contact, even as the figure – a woman clad in only a thin dressing-gown which concealed very little – moved around him.</p><p>"It <em>is</em>!" she exclaimed. "My, my. <em>Tom Bertram</em>. After all this time! Papa's boy himself!"</p><p>"I don't know what you're talking about," Tom said quickly, still avoiding looking directly at her. He knew <em>exactly</em> what she was talking about; he'd worked out, by this point, where it was he'd heard her voice before. A woman of ill-repute, come from London. Of course it would be <em>her</em>. However against the odds it was, it would be <em>her</em>. Of bloody <em>course</em>. "You mistake me for someone else."</p><p>"You're <em>taller</em>, I think," was all she said in reply, her tone coy and jesting. "Your legs look longer, at any rate. I shall be more certain when I see you standing up."</p><p>Groaning, Tom tossed his sketch-work onto the floor with a clattering <em>thud</em> and motioned at the doors behind them. "A <em>word</em>, madam. In private."</p><p>"Ooh, <em>madam</em>," she teased, as he lightly gripped the sheer sleeve of her ridiculous and pointless dressing-gown and pulled her towards the doors.</p><p>As soon as he had – with more angry emphasis than was perhaps originally intended – banged the doors shut behind them, Tom snarled, "However very little you think of me, <em>madam</em>, do be so good as to understand <em>this</em> – I am here for one reason only."</p><p>"I cannot imagine it is to enjoy the company, for fear news of it might return to your precious father."</p><p>Tom's nostrils <em>flared</em>. He was quite offended. But he only said, "No, you're right about that – it is not the company." He exhaled. "I need the money from this job, badly."</p><p>"Gambling debts, I imagine."</p><p>"Of a sort, yes, but I always have those hanging over my head to some degree – we all have our vices, though I imagine, madam, you're used to far less benign measures of addiction in men of your acquaintance – my chief concern is to return home. My letter to a companion I placed all my hopes upon has – it seems – gone astray or been unheeded; I need money, considerably more than can be picked up from the gutters as loose change, in hand to make it back to Mansfield Park."</p><p>"To your <em>father</em>," she simpered, pursing her lips. "Poor papa's lad cannot bear to be away from home so long."</p><p>"To my <em>wife</em>," said he, through gritted teeth.</p><p>Her eyes widened. "My, my, Tom Bertram – you are all surprises today. I am quite astonished. You,<em> married</em>? Truly?"</p><p>He nodded.</p><p>"Someone Sir Thomas Bertram picked out?"</p><p>"The very last person he would have," he admitted, with a slight cutting of the eyes. "A poor relation."</p><p>"You are the last gentleman alive I'd have suspected of an under-handed love-match."</p><p>"Perhaps I'm also the last gentleman alive you'd suspect of pining for want of having his own dear wife in his bed at night."</p><p>Her gaze dropped. "I fear I've been a bit cruel to you, Mr. Bertram."</p><p>"Well," said he, amiably but with some pompousness, "none of us are perfect, my dear – just don't allow it to happen again."</p><p>"I teased you over your actions from when you were little more than a <em>boy</em> and I did not take into account what your current feelings or circumstances might be."</p><p>"No, no. I wasn't so young as<em> that</em> when we met – <em>younger </em>than I am now, yes, but..." He shook his head. "Well, I suppose it doesn't really matter."</p><p>"Do you even really <em>remember</em> me?" she asked.</p><p>"More or less." By which he meant hardly at all.</p><p>"D'you know my <em>name</em>?"</p><p>He shook his head.</p><p>"It's Anne."</p><p>"I think the other gentlemen from that embarrassingly uneventful night in London called you something else" – he brought a hand to his forehead – "something more exotic, though what<em> precisely</em> evades my memory."</p><p>"Nonetheless, sir, my name <em>is</em> Anne – it is what my parents called me, more years ago than I'd like to admit."</p><p>He held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Miss Anne, though I think I preferred it when you were <em>madam</em>. Left something to the imagination, what. Truce?"</p><p>She accepted the outstretched hand and shook it. "Truce."</p><p>"As soon as the damn portrait is done, you won't have to deal with me a moment longer – I give you my word."</p><p>"That's too bad," she said; "I think we might get on better than once we would. I find you much changed, greatly alerted."</p><p>"If only I <em>were</em>," Tom sighed, leaning back against the door-frame. "I sometimes suspect being trapped in myself – within my own never-changing head – is the cruellest jest God ever played on me."</p><hr/><p>The days began to melt together after that.</p><p>In Anne, though she had arrived initially as an unwelcome ghost from his past, Tom found an unlooked-for champion. Knowing his purpose in being there, she proved always the first to speak up in his behalf and to halt the other women's teasing if it became too much.</p><p>In addition to this, Tom was amazed to learn he and Anne had something in common besides an embarrassing story about his youth – a shared love and thorough knowledge of horses – and it greatly endeared them to one another.</p><p>He never would have suspected, not in a thousand years, a common London whore of liking horses, much less of knowing such a great deal <em>about</em> them.</p><p>More than once, Tom felt a slight twinge of disappointment that this woman was not of his social class and he thus could not, given how it would <em>look</em>, invite her to come riding with him or show her about his stables; he would have valued her opinion on his favourite hunter.</p><p>Although he learned the jovial, snorting girl whose youth put him in mind of Susan Price was called Sophie, he did not discover – or ask – the names of the other five women of ill repute, and gradually knew them only by sight and colouring and on account of their possessing certain physical characteristics he was in a unique position to see on a daily basis.</p><p>He jested with them, at a distance, and allowed them, also, to see the progress on his portrait if they so wished, provided whoever it was didn't break her pose while he was still working to come over and see – he'd been cross with the only woman of the group to try it, quite lost his temper, and it did not happen<em> twice</em>.</p><p>One bright morning, while he painted, the woman who'd arched her back at him on the first day was giving him a difficult time, constantly moving when she wasn't supposed to simply to make him look up at her in exasperation before smirking pointedly the very moment they made eye-contact.</p><p>Anne, from her place in the middle, turned her head at the neck and told her companion to stop picking on their gentleman painter friend. "Have some mercy on the poor young man, Sally – he's separated from his true love."</p><p>At that moment, the doors behind Tom were flung open – while somebody in the hall shouted whoever was barging in did not have permission to be here – and none other than John Yates and his valet came striding in.</p><p>"<em>Bertram</em>!" cried Mr. Yates, breathlessly, hands outreaching.</p><p>Whirling so that his stool fell out from beneath him and tossing aside his paintbrush, Tom leaped up and ran to his friend, pulling him gratefully into his arms in a tight embrace.</p><p>"<em>Yates</em>!" he murmured into the Honourable's shoulder, clinging to him. "What the devil kept you?"</p><p>Watching this display of clear affection, Sophie began to clap uncertainly.</p><p>Anne sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. "<em>No</em>," she hissed, "not <em>that</em> one."</p><p>"My best carriage-horse threw a shoe, and–" Mr. Yates stopped, pulling away from Tom, noticing the unclothed women for the first time. "I <em>say</em>! Steady on, old bean. Merciful lord in Heaven!"</p><p>"D'you need a moment?" Tom asked, patting his friend's back understandingly. "I shan't judge."</p><p>"I <em>might</em>." He stared, pressing a hand to his heart. "I'm quite taken by surprise. Most, most unexpected..."</p><p>"It gets old remarkably fast," Tom assured him. "You wouldn't think so, but it does."</p><p>The poor mortified valet excused himself and backed into the hallway, only to crash into something and then come running back in a moment later, see the posed women again, and – blushing furiously – direct his gaze to the wall behind them.</p><p>"Well, well!" exclaimed Mr. Yates. "And here you led me to believe you were languishing away in some tavern like a slave!" He motioned at the nearest woman of ill-repute. "<em>Quite</em> generously endowed, isn't she? Just sort of jumps out at one and shouts a greeting to the heavens, don't they?"</p><p>Tom shrugged nonchalantly. "I've seen better." To the woman, "Erm, no offence."</p><p>She narrowed her eyes at him, wholly unforgiving.</p><p>"No time like the present, then," Yates crooned, waving an arm at the door. "Come, Bertram. We'd best be on our way if you wish to be anywhere near Mansfield by tomorrow morning."</p><p>Alas, they could not leave at once – despite Tom's raised hopes – because his commissioner blocked them and declared, in a tone which might have passed for jesting if the man's eyes had not darkened considerably as he spoke, that if he left Weymouth without first completing the portrait he would have Tom's legs broken in five places.</p><p>When Yates, with a sharp intake of offended breath, protested against this most unfair threat, the commissioner remarked that he'd already paid Tom an advance.</p><p>"That is easily rectified," said Mr. Yates, cheerfully, turning to Tom with a grin. "Give back the money, make your apologies, and we can–"</p><p>"<em>Uhhh</em>..." Tom gnawed on his lower lip so intently he almost drew blood. <em>If only it were so easy.</em></p><p>Yates moaned, "Don't tell me you haven't <em>got</em> it!"</p><p>"I <em>might</em>," Tom confessed, wringing his hands, "have lost <em>some</em> of it – just a few guineas, mind you – at a card-table last night."</p><p>Over his shoulder, to his valet, Yates called, "Fetch my money-pouch, my dear fellow – it seems there is some payment required to leave this place." In a lower voice, to Tom, he said, "You mustn't think anything of it, you know – what's a few guineas between friends?"</p><p>"<em>This</em>," said the commissioner, dryly, handing Mr. Yates a folded scrap of torn paper, "is what your friend owes me if he leaves this appointment prematurely."</p><p>Yates read the number written down, coloured vividly, and – looking nearly apoplectic – coughed out, "<em>A few guineas</em>, you said!"</p><p>Tom made a face which might have been a sheepish grin but more likely was a grimace. "I suppose you'd better unpack – my employer's servants will show you to the guest chambers. We shall be here some days more."</p><hr/><p>To his credit, Tom did not – for once in his life – shirk his work; the portrait took exactly as long as it needed to, was not rushed or ruined, no corner was noticeably cut in the process of its creation despite his eagerness to be back home, to see Fanny again.</p><p>If the eagerness he endured gave him pain, he dulled it considerably with drink and with finding pleasure in the company of Mr. Yates and the least silly of the women who were the subject of his portrait. Two of them, in addition to Sophie and Anne, were acceptable conversationalists and proved amiable. His commissioner, though friendly in passing, no longer threatening to break his legs now that he showed no signs of running away, was generally more standoffish, especially with Mr. Yates in the house.</p><p>When the daily light changed to a point where the work needed to be postponed until it returned to what it had been during the morning hours, and Tom's dominant hand was cramped and sore, the women sometimes suggested surprisingly benign actives one did not generally imagine whores doing – playing cricket on the beach, in one instance.</p><p>Tom won several of their friendly games and, despite the fact that even Mr. Yates was painfully aware the makeshift set up in the sand was of the simplest sort, designed, more or less, so that anyone with the slightest skill with a cricket bat <em>could not lose</em>, was simply <em>delighted</em> every time.</p><p>A few evenings following the cricket games, an outdoor ball was held, practically at the same location, by some Weymouth locals and holiday-goers, and the women – with the commissioner's permission – all contrived to go and to bring Tom and Mr. Yates along with them.</p><p>Mr. Yates danced a few measures (though not with any of the women they'd arrived in the company of), but Tom had come resolved not to stand up himself. He sat, instead, drinking and watching the stars come out and occasionally gauging the dancers curiously, wondering if they were – any of them – in love, if that could be what kept them at it for so long.</p><p>Then he heard a sniffling at his side, and turned in considerable surprise to find Sophie Friday-faced and openly weeping.</p><p>At first, he could not persuade her to tell him what the matter was, suspecting she might have been hurt, finally getting out of her that she'd merely been snubbed by a gentleman she'd expected to dance with her.</p><p>"<em>Oh</em>," said Tom, not with quite so much sensitivity as he might have employed if he had not been drinking, "because you're a–?"</p><p>"Uh-huh."</p><p>"Rotten luck." He brought his wineglass to his lips and drank, long and deeply. "<em>Condolences</em>, I'm sure, are in order."</p><p>Her tears coursed harder, streaming down her face.</p><p>Tom could hardly fail to notice every other woman in attendance – lady or otherwise – had managed to find a partner for this blasted dance, even Anne, despite her clearly being the most mature-looking female present, and how this weighed on poor, snubbed Sophie.</p><p>It did not help his nagging conscience that she somehow, with a mix of her young age and her soft countenance, put him in mind of both Susan and Fanny at the same time.</p><p>So, with a sigh and a light groan, he rose from his place and stepped in front of the crying girl, holding out a hand. "<em>I'll</em> stand up with you, Sophie, if you like – if you don't mind being led in the dance by an old married man who's been drinking all evening."</p><p>Her tears slowed and she blinked, slowly wiping them away as she gazed up at him. "You don't <em>have</em> to..."</p><p>"Nonsense, I<em> know</em> I don't have to, of course! No one has to do anything they don't want. There's no use talking about it. Come on – don't dawdle or the dance will be over."</p><p>While they danced, Tom happened to spy someone on the other side of the beach, not one of the local party, staring at him sombrely with especial attention.</p><p>Sophie asked, joining hands, nearly all merriment now, if something was wrong.</p><p>"<em>Nothing</em> – I just..." He squinted over her shoulder. "I think I've seen that man somewhere before, and he's been watching me." He smiled, then, and turned, switching places – for a beat – with the dancer on his left, before finding himself in front of Sophie once again. "I'm not actually worried. He's probably taken me for someone else in the dark. I'm sure that's all it is."</p><p>The dance ended and Anne – excusing herself from her own partner – privately congratulated Tom on what he'd done for Sophie. She had witnessed the girl's disappointment, seen the whole occurrence, and hoped – though she imagined it was in vain – someone would be willing to set aside their pride for the evening and indulge the poor thing before any real harm to her spirits could be done.</p><p>"Well" – he gave an exaggerated <em>shrug</em> – "I could hardly sit there while she was blue as megrim because some mutton-headed gentleman thought himself too good for her."</p><p>"You <em>could</em> have, though," she said quietly. "You didn't. Whatever made you <em>do</em> it, Mr. Bertram? You must have known you would look a bit silly dancing with her in public – she being what she is, and you – even if you're not generally known here by name – a proper-bred gentleman of six-and-twenty."</p><p>"She put me in mind of my little sister-in-law," Tom admitted. "And I found myself thinking what..." He dropped her gaze. "That is, I thought what my brother would have done, in my place." Not that he imagined <em>Edmund</em> would ever have let himself be in such a situation. "I thought... I thought he would have danced with her. Because it was the kind thing to do." And everybody always did seem to love <em>him</em> best, even Fanny – his younger brother must, in his life, be doing <em>something</em> right.</p><p>Anne <em>stared</em>, as if seeing him clearly for the first time. "You're not what you act like, not a bit like it."</p><p>"I do not understand you."</p><p>"<em>Tom Bertram</em>," she sighed, "even when you're at your best, you seem to care for nothing, as if life is one big game you want to try your hand at, win or lose, as if you were merely living for yourself... But when it comes down to it – truly – I think all you really want is to be <em>useful</em> somehow."</p><p>"I'm not altogether sure I know <em>how</em> to be useful," he said in what was nearly a murmur.</p><p>"Perhaps," suggested Anne, pityingly, "that is why you nearly always hold yourself back."</p><p>"Perhaps."</p><p>"Or is it because," she wondered aloud, "you're afraid someone else already does it so much better than yourself, that you fear you aren't <em>needed</em>?"</p><p>Tom could not bring himself to answer.</p><p>He decided he was very glad, after all, that the stark class difference should keep them from ever being real friends with one another – her directness made him nervous and, worse even than that, <em>melancholic</em>.</p><p>Her words made the mercifully fast world slow down, made him want to <em>think</em>.</p><p>And there was danger and, worse even than that, <em>pain</em> in such thinking.</p><hr/><p>Fanny stood at the window. She was watching the tailor who was to make up her new wardrobe and had just been in to measure her and ask what fabrics she liked best (and she'd hardly <em>known</em>, really, apart from Mary Crawford's suggestions) depart, and heard – behind her – Mrs. Norris say, "You ought to be very obliged to your <em>uncle</em>, Fanny, for footing the bill as he did."</p><p>Bile burned the back of her throat; bitter tears held in too long stung her eyes. She tried not to think too hard about how Aunt Norris put so heavy an emphasis on the word <em>uncle</em>, as if Sir Thomas were not also her father-in-law.</p><p>"I thank you both," said Fanny, at last, with forced airiness. "For your consideration, that is. I-I'm sure Tom will pay him back." She was <em>not</em>, really, sure of any such thing – indeed was rather doubtful of it – but it <em>felt </em>the right thing to say, the <em>expected</em> thing.</p><p>"Poor Tom," said Mrs. Norris, with a despairing <em>tsk</em> in Fanny's direction, and walked away.</p><p>Fanny buried her face in her hands and breathed very slowly, inhaling and exhaling with effort, struggling not to burst into tears.</p><p>When she lowered her hands and glanced out the window again, she saw a small, wholly unfamiliar carriage pulling up. Stepping away from the window, she called, over her shoulder, "<em>Edmund</em>?"</p><p>Edmund was near enough to hear her call. He'd seen Aunt Norris in passing and – realising she must have been talking to Fanny at the window, doubtless none too nicely – had been on his way to see if she was all right.</p><p>"Fanny, whatever–" he began, before glimpsing the arriving carriage for himself, seeing a thin young man step out. "Why, it's Mr. Owen!"</p><p>Fanny looked at him with a furrowed brow.</p><p>"A friend of mine," he explained quickly. "We were ordained together." He peered out and frowned. "Strange. He looks unusually grave – I do hope his family are all well. Come along, Fanny" – taking her hand – "we'll go out to meet him and hear his news."</p><p>Mr. Owen took off his hat and nodded to them staidly, gripping the wide, black brim so tightly his knuckles glowed white against the dark backdrop clutched by his tense fingers.</p><p>Edmund introduced Fanny as Mrs. Bertram, and Mr. Owen – a more approachable, conversational countenance peeking through his lingering solemnity – declared it was a<em> pleasure</em>, to be sure, though a tremendous surprise all the same.</p><p>"But, Edmund, my friend," he added, shaking his head. "How could you, of all persons, forget the banns? Ought the thing not to have been more generally known? Why the secrecy?"</p><p>"I'm afraid that was all my brother's doing," he said. "He insisted upon it. I was obliged to do my best with the time available."</p><p>"Yes, your brother, <em>Tom</em> – that is the very subject I came to speak to you on."</p><p>Edmund's eyes widened. "You've had word of him?"</p><p>Mr. Owen hesitated. "Have <em>you</em>? Has he written home?"</p><p>Fanny shook her head as Edmund confessed they were not even aware of where he <em>was </em>at the moment.</p><p>Wincing, Mr. Owen suggested they speak privately, and Edmund – with a sigh – invited him inside and made as if to bring him into the drawing room where Lady Bertram and Susan were, then – thinking better of it – waved him discreetly into an adjoining vestibule.</p><p>Still, Mr. Owen was hesitant to speak his news of Tom in front of Fanny, murmuring that it was not 'good' and certainly nothing a proper young Christian wife ought to hear.</p><p>"<em>No</em>," insisted Edmund, at the suggestion of her leaving them alone, for which Fanny was grateful; "this concerns her as much as myself."</p><p>"I have seen Tom – though I'm not altogether certain he recognised me – in Weymouth," said Mr. Owen, haltingly.</p><p>Edmund bit back an oath.</p><p>Fanny merely looked grim, waiting for him to continue.</p><p>"He was in the company of a very shady lot, I'm afraid."</p><p>"<em>Gamblers</em>," Edmund murmured. "That is just like him – what our father always fears."</p><p>"Women of ill-repute," corrected Mr. Owen. "Indeed, I was aware of Tom's gambling years ago – I should not have come all this way, in such great haste, to inform you of further developments in what is already generally known. By you, his <em>brother</em>, more than anyone, no doubt."</p><p>Edmund was visibly puzzled. "That<em> isn't </em>Tom's nature – could you have been mistaken?"</p><p>"I thought I might have been – it was <em>he</em> I saw, but I suspected there might be some explanation – so I asked about." Mr. Owens appeared pained. "At first, I'd hoped this was merely a case of Tom's typical indiscretion. I had learned one of the women he associated with was an avid horsewoman; and that Tom might have been speaking to her of one of his own horses, asking advice, in all innocence, occurred to me straight away. Only, the further my enquiry went, the more readily I discovered he has been <em>living with these women</em> for several days –<em> shamelessly</em>, Edmund. He is seen coming and leaving their employer's house, and has even invited friends – Mr. Yates was visiting with him, brought a valet and a carriage, and I'm told they both readily participate in the daily activates of the women Tom has been living with."</p><p>Edmund swallowed.</p><p>"It may not be<em> true</em>," said Fanny, faintly, her voice little more than a hoarse trickle.</p><p>"I'm afraid it <em>is</em>, my dear," Mr. Owen told her. "God have mercy on you and yours, but it is the honest truth."</p><p>"Thank you for telling us, Owen," Edmund said after a long, broken pause during which the world had felt silent and cold. "I know this was not an easy thing for you to report to us."</p><p>"I have one more caution – I would advise your father, Edmund, if you do not think it presumptuous, to send for Tom and to urge him home before he can do something stupid which cannot be undone – before he proposes marriage to one of these disreputable women. You know, as a future baronet, he shouldn't marry someone who is not a maid, let alone a woman of <em>that</em> sort. I saw him dancing with one, a very young creature, and suspect him of having a favourite."</p><p>"<em>Owen</em>," laughed Edmund, incredulously, "you <em>are</em> mistaken – Tom is already married."</p><p>Mr. Owen appeared shocked. "What, <em>married</em>? Tom? <em>When</em>?"</p><p>"To Fanny!" The words echoed – Edmund having spoken louder than he strictly <em>meant</em> to – and he resolved to bring his voice down, lest Aunt Norris overhear and eavesdrop.</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>?"</p><p>Edmund pointed. "Fanny – right here."</p><p>"Oh, <em>goodness</em>!" exclaimed Mr. Owen, the blood quite drained from his face. "Edmund, I <em>have</em> been mistaken – though not about what I saw in Weymouth. When you introduced her at the door as Mrs. Bertram, seeing how near to you she stood and how you held her hand, I thought she was <em>your </em>wife! I thought she was <em>Mary</em>, formerly Crawford! The one you spoke so highly of when you stayed with myself and my sisters – who, I might add, were all three of them breaking their hearts over you. I thought she must have changed her mind and accepted your offer of marriage."</p><p>"I was speaking of performing <em>Tom's </em>wedding – as the ordained minster!" said Edmund, snorting with derision. "I would not have conducted <em>my own wedding</em> in secrecy."</p><p>"That is why I was so greatly surprised at you, my fine fellow!" Then, "And to <em>think</em>, I... I blush to recall the things I've only just said of Tom in front of..." His eyes darted to Fanny. "If I'd known who you were, I should have spoken less plain, broken the news more gently – I thought I spoke only of a foolhardy brother-in-law who had grieved you, not a wayward husband."</p><p>But Fanny was too deeply wounded, to hear of Tom thusly after so long of not hearing of or from him at all, to care in which <em>tone</em> the news was delivered. Mr. Owen could have been crass, could have blurted his news the moment he got out of the carriage, and the blow – for her – would not have been worsened even to the smallest degree.</p><p>She did not believe, necessarily, Tom had betrayed her – she thought she knew the nature of her own husband well enough to rule<em> that</em> out, and so could not doubt him – but, still, the fact of the matter was, inexcusably, he preferred such company – regardless of its manner – over being here, at what was supposed to be their <em>home</em>, with <em>her</em>.</p><p>This from the man who had once said if there were problems in Mansfield Park they could not face, if his parents did not love her, he'd take her away to Derbyshire to look at cows.</p><p>Clearly, he'd meant nothing at all by it.</p><p>Nor by anything else he'd ever said to her.</p><p>Edmund was almost too angry to be of use in comforting Fanny – and too intelligent, as well. He knew, at once, there was nothing he could say which would make this better; if she'd moved towards him, for a show of affection or solidarity, he would have given it with good will, but as she stood apart, hands trembling, he said and did nothing for her.</p><p>Mr. Owen, not knowing Fanny and feeling he had slighted her, was more eager to make immediate amends. He asked if she was all right, then if she should like – for doubtless <em>Tom</em> was not seeing to looking after her spiritually, such as he was – to attend church more regularly, if there was any assistance in that regard he might provide.</p><p>"<em>No</em>," whispered Fanny, staring down at her unsteady hands and holding back her tears.</p><p>No. No,<em> indeed</em> – she had <em>Edmund</em> already, and as he oversaw her scripture reading as much as her secular lessons, and made certain she and Susan attended church with the rest of the family whenever possible, she did not need anything from Mr. Owen, though it was good – or at least coming from a good place, no doubt – of him to offer.</p><p>Edmund walked Mr. Owen out – after his friend assured him he would not be able to stay for tea and would prefer, under the circumstances, not to meet Lady Bertram and give her his greetings just now – and Fanny ran upstairs to the school-room.</p><p>She made certain the door was closed securely behind her before collapsing in front of the empty, cold grate of the fireplace and sobbing as if her heart would break, sobbing with an abandon which would have mollified any number of more hysterically-inclined women who'd have thought her cold to the news, who'd have believed her perhaps to have taken it too well and shamed her sex in so doing.</p><p>The door opened behind her. "Fanny?"</p><p>Mercifully, it was Susan, for even if it had been Aunt Norris or Edmund, Fanny could not have made herself stop by then.</p><p>"Oh, Fanny, what <em>is </em>it? Has something happened?"</p><p>She couldn't answer; she could only put her hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to muffle her crying until the door was shut again.</p><p>Sinking down, Susan put her arms around her sister and held her until her shaking lessened and her sobs were only hiccups.</p><p>"Can you talk about it?" she whispered. "Will it <em>help</em>?"</p><p>Fanny blinked her bloodshot eyes at the changing shadows in the school-room. "No."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Truths, As They're Given To Us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Twenty:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Truths, As They're Given To Us</em>
</p><p>For the first couple of days after Mr. Owen's visit, Fanny was permitted – simply by unavoidable neglect on the part of everyone other than Susan – to wallow in her unhappiness. It was not wilful misery, but rather a cloud of suffering which hung constantly about and refused to be ignored as the rest of the world – it would seem – was ignoring <em>her</em>.</p><p>She read, and did not retain neither subject nor moral.</p><p>She ate, and did not taste.</p><p>She sewed, and did not notice her work becoming crooked (Mrs. Norris was not present at the time, kept busy at the White House, to point it out, and Susan hadn't the heart).</p><p>She walked the hallways and corridors, and could not say – afterwards – where she'd been or what she'd seen.</p><p>She went to bed at a reasonable hour, and did not sleep.</p><p>And where was Edmund?</p><p>The first day, he was arguing, unexpectedly, with Mary Crawford, who quit the house in an ill-temper.</p><p>He had, perhaps unwisely, confided in her about Tom and was frustrated with her suggestion that it all be hushed up as quickly as possible.</p><p>"My dear Miss Crawford, forgive me for scolding, but you do <em>exasperate</em>!" he cried, shaking his head. "I know you do not think ill – I know your heart to be good and moral, deep down – but the way you <em>speak</em> one could almost think you were concerned only with how it <em>looked</em>!"</p><p>"One could," she'd snarled in return, "say very much the same of <em>you</em>, Edmund."</p><p>"Whatever <em>can</em> you–?"</p><p>Her hand was raised. "You've said yourself that you don't for a moment believe Tom is doing anything immoral beyond gambling – you do not accuse him of slighting our poor, wretched Fanny – you simply don't like who he chooses to dwell with. Am I <em>mistaken</em>? How is that not the same thing?"</p><p>"You <em>are </em>mistaken!" he had argued, distressed that she could not see it for herself – he truly thought her to have more sense. "Living with women of ill-repute, even if you are not soliciting them for..." – and he coloured vividly – "Well...erm... That is..."</p><p>Mary's brow had risen.</p><p>Edmund cleared his throat. "Well, it is a gross immorality in and of itself. It shames his wife. Even if no one else outside of this family and our closest friends ever hears of it, <em>Fanny</em> will know where he has been, who he associated with. The harm is done whether word is out or not."</p><p>"Then, for mercy's sake, go and fetch him! You've spoken – to <em>Fanny</em>, I'd imagine, as well as myself – of going to get him and bring him back."</p><p>"And how would it seem for <em>two </em>sons of Sir Thomas Bertram to go into a house like that? Has Tom not shamed this family enough?"</p><p>"And – speaking so – you still tell me appearances are<em> not </em>your primary concern, do you?" She had laughed, then, but it was not a very <em>nice</em> laugh. "<em>Silly Edmund</em>! That is where the hushing up comes in."</p><p>Edmund objected to being called silly, and begged Mary to think and to make herself useful, for he was regretting having spoken so openly and seriously to one who would not grant him the same manner of solemnity in return.</p><p>"You <em>think</em>," was her last remark as she rose from her place, grabbed her bright red shawl from the chair, and made for the door, "if you shake me hard enough, something serious will drop out." Her dark eyes bore into his lighter, vulnerable ones, their look mocking without any indication of real malice. "But I assure you I am profoundly shallow!"</p><p>The last thing to be heard of her until the following week – which brought her and her brother both back to them all in better, more forgiving spirits – was the sound of her high-heeled slippers clicking on the marble foyer and her polite goodbye to Baddeley.</p><p>The second day, Edmund argued, more levelly, with his father. He did not advocate hushing the matter up, but Sir Thomas needed to be told all the same, and it was best that his younger son break the news and report from which quarter it came, rather than someone else.</p><p>Sir Thomas' first suggestion, which was that Fanny be called in and permitted, if she wished it, to be released from all ties with Tom, repulsed Edmund entirely.</p><p>"Why should Fanny, who is completely innocent in all this, live such a life – practically the life of a widow, despite her having a living husband still – for Tom's moment of foolish indiscretion?"</p><p>"It would be arranged only if she wished it," said Sir Thomas, "and she would be provided for, naturally, by our family. We Bertrams would not forsake her if she disavowed Tom." He had then emphatically jabbed his quill pen into the ink-pot on his desk and, lifting it back up, banged it against the crystal rim. "She would not be in want; she would have an income."</p><p>Edmund shuddered at the thought of the mean little cottage in some dreary countryside corner and pinched expenses which would follow, regardless of any initial good intentions, especially once Aunt Norris stuck her oar in.</p><p>"Sir," said he, struggling to keep calm and to not crack his knuckles anxiously against the side of Sir Thomas' desk, "I do not believe Tom has <em>done</em> anything which would require a legal separation to be considered by Fanny. But she is distressed by the news and to put such a question to her <em>now</em>..." His hands had shaken dreadfully. "She is fragile. She needs comfort and stimulation and, above all, <em>compassion</em> – not to be paid off and set up apart from us all.</p><p>"Father, <em>please</em>, with all due respect, it would be a further cruelty, inflicted on one who has already suffered beyond what mere words we can exchange between ourselves could describe, not a mercy offered."</p><p>By the end of the discussion, Sir Thomas had finally agreed not to put such a question to Fanny, to spare her that much distress at least if Edmund truly thought it best, but it took a great deal of wheedling and anxious speech back and forth to reach that point.</p><p>Edmund was exhausted, emotionally and physically, by the end of that day.</p><p>Worse, he was made thoroughly miserable by thoughts of Mary Crawford and his brother Tom respectively, and his mind refused to leave off when he urged it to give him a moment's respite. He <em>defended</em> Fanny, always, in every tense conversation he forced himself to endure, but there was no time to see to her personally, even in passing.</p><p>When, on the third morning following Mr. Owen's news of Tom, after the dust had settled somewhat and Edmund was able to seek Fanny out, he was made truly nervous by what he found.</p><p>She was pale and listless, looking sickly as well as low in spirits, despite her instance that her head did not hurt her.</p><p>What alarmed Edmund the most about her drastic change in appearance was he was almost certain she had looked healthier in <em>Portsmouth</em>, despite the ill air and clutter. Here, in the country, she ought to be as close to the picture of health as could be expected of someone of her constitution. She ought to be improving, day by day, not <em>worsening</em>.</p><p>Susan's own cheeks had lost their rosiness, and her eyes were not bright, but Edmund suspected this was largely from fretting over her sister's rapid deterioration.</p><p>It was apparent to him that both young ladies needed to be out of doors and getting some manner of exercise. Lessons were all well and good, but they'd get no benefit from slaving over books and silverware and practising their manners if they let themselves grow physically frail in the process. Moreover, Fanny's mind was clearly not benefiting from her reading or handiwork at the current time – she hadn't at all the <em>look</em> of one who was thinking on what she was doing. She wasn't possessing even of the expression he associated with over-worked scholars from his Oxford days; she was too absent to be manic.</p><p>Edmund knew he had already left it too long, even if it couldn't have been avoided, and if he were to leave it any longer and Aunt Norris was to take note of Fanny's low spirits, she'd prescribe some exercise which would hardly benefit poor Mrs. Bertram and would be far more to her <em>own</em> advantage. One might call it 'useful chores' more than 'taking the air' if one dared speak openly.</p><p>So his mind was quite made up.</p><p>He stood in front of Susan and Fanny and clapped his hand together, urging them up at once.</p><p>"Fanny," said he, once she had risen, slowly and with a dazed look about her not unlike a diver who has surfaced too quickly, "I know you've expressed apprehensions about horses before – I know you fear them a little – but you – you <em>both</em> – are going to learn to <em>ride</em>."</p><p>"<em>Me</em>? Oh, cousin, <em>no</em>..."</p><p>"You asked me to help you," he reminded her. "Riding will suit you, once you've got the trick of it, and you need daily exercise. You <em>must</em>, Fanny. I refuse to let my brother's neglect spoil you, in health or in habits. He no longer has a say in the matter."</p><p>"I haven't..." she stammered, wide-eyed with horror. "I have not a horse."</p><p>"Susan will have to ride Julia's old horse, and you – regardless of whatever fuss Aunt Norris kicks up – will ride Maria's mare; she's the most gentle horse I've ever seen." Both beasts, he assured them, were still in residence at Mansfield. "That shall be an end to it." He took Fanny's trembling hand and, giving it a brisk little pat, closed his own over it. "Come now."</p><p>From the beginning, it was Susan who took to riding the quickest. Edmund was half afraid she would begin jumping hedges and cantering around the countryside before he'd had time to give her adequate instruction. She had Julia's horse trotting and eager to break into full a gallop before Edmund had finished showing her how to <em>walk</em> the beast. Her smile was bright and her pleasure evident.</p><p>The same, predictably enough that it did not distress Edmund unduly, could not be said of her sister.</p><p>Maria's mare was gentle and slow, seemingly aware its rider was timid and needing to be carried carefully, yet Fanny still trembled once she was on her back. She did not <em>like</em> it; she was almost too petrified to grasp the reins.</p><p>Edmund was all patience. He urged to keep at it, to try to venture just a little further than she dared; he urged her to not be so very afraid, to take in the beauty of the day and the friendliness and good will of the mare she rode.</p><p>In a few days, however, Fanny had surpassed the daring younger sister who'd started on better footing than herself and was showing many, many signs of being a true horsewoman, deep down, after all.</p><p>She kept her seat well, sat beautifully side-saddle, looking like a very proper Mrs. Bertram indeed, when she was no longer shaking with fear.</p><p>As Edmund hoped, the exercise brought life and colour back to his sister-in-law's face and she seemed in far better spirits.</p><p>This unlooked-for felicity – this delightful cure – came to a grinding stop when – the following week – Mary made up with Edmund, most prettily, and asked to be taught to ride herself. She had always wanted him to teach her, she insisted, had been on the verge of asking many times, but up until Maria became Mrs. Rushworth, both Bertram sisters' horses were always wanted on fine days and it seemed an impossible request.</p><p>Seeing <em>Fanny</em> at it, and the good it was doing her, renewed her longing. Couldn't she, one morning or other when Fanny wished not to go, have a try?</p><p>"<em>Could</em> she, Fanny? You wouldn't<em> mind</em>, would you?" Edmund had then asked, smiling, looking at her and putting the question in such a way that – without his realising it – made it impossible to answer honestly.</p><p>Of course Fanny minded! Of <em>course</em>! She had not expected to love riding so, and it took her mind off her absent husband – indeed off of <em>all</em> her troubles. But she could not refuse Edmund, who she loved too well to disappoint, and, moreover, the horse was not <em>hers</em>. As it belonged to Maria, even if it seemed unlikely Mrs. Rushworth of Wimpole Street would return to Mansfield Park to ride the mare again, Fanny could have no say in who could or could not ride her.</p><p>Trying to swallow her disappointment and private resentment towards Mary, which she did not count as being quite so fair as she wished to be, Fanny gave her consent.</p><p>Edmund was so pleased he kissed her on both cheeks, called her the best, most generous of sisters, and squeezed her hands before turning to tell Miss Crawford the good news.</p><p>Susan, though she loved Edmund as well, thought it most presumptuous of Mary to squeeze herself into the riding lessons, and would not be pacified by Fanny's soft explanation that surely it was not wrong of Miss Crawford to want to spend some time alone with Edmund which would be considered proper, given they were not betrothed to each other and many other activities were ruled out.</p><p>"Besides," ended Fanny, a little lamely, "it may be she really <em>has</em> been wanting to learn to ride – for its own sake."</p><p>"As I heard it," grumbled Susan, fuming, "<em>she</em> turned <em>him</em> down – she hasn't got the right to hold his company to herself now. You should still go riding, Fanny, it's doing you a world of good – <em>I</em> don't need to ride – Mary can have <em>my</em> horse."</p><p>"Susan," was her gentle reminder, "the horses <em>aren't </em>ours."</p><p>"Julia's horse, then." Susan looked as if it were one and the same thing.</p><p>But such was not to be.</p><p>Maria's horse was more ideal for teaching a beginner, which Mary certainly was. Susan had proven more capable than Mary, despite being younger, and could handle Julia's horse from the start, but Edmund doubted Mary Crawford would be able to do so until she'd had a couple of lessons.</p><p>The idea <em>was</em> suggested of Fanny taking Julia's horse – Susan would not ride if her sister was to lose out – but by then Edmund was on the fringes of suspecting Fanny had not been entirely truthful with him when she said she didn't mind Mary taking Maria's horse, and to be considered a liar by Edmund was more than she could bear. So she demurred, shook her head, insisted she really had not wanted to ride for a few days and Susan had merely worried on her behalf.</p><p>The tears in her eyes nearly gave her away, but Edmund – whose own eyes were largely for Mary that day – did not see them, though they glistened unshed.</p><p>"And I'm sure," said Edmund, at last, "if you change your mind, we'll be back in time for a second ride."</p><p>They were not.</p><p>Fanny and Susan were, for so many days as Mary wished to ride – up until a wet morning came, brought on by perfect grey clouds, and put a merciful end to it – left behind at the house with Henry Crawford.</p><p>They usually sat in the drawing-room, which was quiet when Mrs. Norris did not join them and Lady Bertram dozed off, stroking Pug in her sleep. When Mrs. Norris <em>did</em> make an appearance, she had so much to say the young people – even if they'd been more inclined, on all sides, to talk openly – could not have gotten very many words in edgewise.</p><p>When her endless pert prattle, very little of it good-natured despite her efforts to appear still amiable to Mr. Crawford, became too much to bear, they adjourned – more than once on Henry's own suggestion – for a walk on the grounds.</p><p>If he were anyone else, Fanny might have felt obliged to him, because he did seem to realise how she was slighted by Mrs. Norris and made his suggestions and excuses with impeccable timing. As it stood, she disliked his attentiveness. There was nothing directly improper about it, save that it was too continuous to wholly dismiss, but it always left her feeling uneasy.</p><p>Luckily, Fanny was in no danger of loving him. Not in any manner. If ever she was, it might have been during the two days Edmund quarrelled with Mary and Sir Thomas respectively. Her spirits having been so sunken, her disappointment in Tom – even her private anger at his total desertion of her – at its highest, most unchecked peak, she might almost – if she did not guard herself – have been vulnerable to the exaggerated kindness of a charming gentleman fawning over her, whoever he was.</p><p>But she had not seen Mr. Crawford at all during that time, the quarrel having temporarily kept both himself and his sister away, and by the time she did see him again, she'd had the riding to clear her head and time enough to ease her aching heart. She wasn't looking for any kind of emotional replacement for the one whose company had been denied her.</p><p>And, thus, she was – more or less – safe.</p><p>For his own part, watching her walk morosely at his side, her smiles only for Susan and never for himself, Mr. Crawford just couldn't work it out.</p><p>Anything he could think of which might endear her to him, he had done. He'd even fetched her shawl for her before one of the house-maids could do it, nearly each time, before they went walking.</p><p>One day, for lack of any better ideas, he tried giving full attention to cheery Susan Price – just that once fetching <em>her</em> shawl instead of Mrs. Bertram's as they readied to go out – to see if that was the way to Fanny's affections, or at least to making her jealous, if nothing else, but either it had no bearing on her emotions or she saw right through it.</p><p>"I begin to suppose," he told his sister, reclining upon the sofa in the parsonage drawing-room early one evening, "Fanny Bertram is <em>incapable</em> of feeling."</p><p>Mary, who had been having a good day until he made such a ridiculous comment (she was not the sort of woman who could tolerate <em>stupidity</em> with as much grace as she did <em>scandal</em>), lifted her head from where it lolled on the fringed silken cushion and glanced up at her brother with dark annoyance. "You're an <em>idiot</em>, Henry, if you truly believe such a thing – she's very sweet, and she has been made unhappy. Her husband has left her, among relations, to gallivant in Portsmouth with his friends."</p><p>"Her <em>cousin</em>," he said, wetting his lips and thinking wryly of Maria, "was never unhappy when her husband left her to go to Bath. And, indeed, I know of no woman who ever was made unhappy by the gallantry of a rich husband – with worldly sense enough to know his use is up – leaving her in luxury and generously putting himself out of the way of her doings."</p><p>"Listen, I don't deny what you say is true enough in many – or even most – cases." She <em>sighed</em>. "Truly, anyone who thinks otherwise only deceives themselves and others.</p><p>"Alas, Fanny herself may not have been aware of these facts before marriage. She may be a private romantic despite outward appearances. She may fancy herself deceived. Our Mrs. Bertram was not, I think, realistically schooled for matrimony." Mary rolled her eyes. "Yet you – wicked gentleman – accuse her of being without feeling, even as she plainly suffers from feeling<em> too much</em> over her husband's trifling folly – the poor, <em>poor</em> wounded soul!"</p><p>Henry snorted.</p><p>"Oh," she went on, throwing up an arm melodramatically, "I do not know <em>why</em> Edmund would not go and fetch Tom back; I hope he will not repent it! He was so keen to go <em>before</em> he knew where he was – <em>before</em> the errand was truly possible.</p><p>"Foolish man! It would have been nothing to slap his silly brother on the wrist – as I've done to <em>you</em> many a time, my dearest – warn him off future indiscretion with a few stern words, and drag him back for a fortnight until tempers cooled all around.</p><p>"Mansfield would perk up most pleasantly, depend upon it.</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>, I believe, would be mollified by two weeks with a temporarily reformed Tom in residence – less has been enough to content pining wives in worse cases than her own."</p><p>Henry groaned loudly at that, tossing back his head and staring up at the ceiling. A returned husband skulking around Mansfield Park did not assist his own desired ends. He liked Tom well enough, but husbands – particularly the wealthy, titled ones – always got in the way when they <em>would</em> hang about where they weren't wanted.</p><p>"I wished only," he said, with more than a trace of sulkiness, "to make a small hole in Fanny Bertram's heart – and now I fear, watching how little she warms to me, though I've shown her nothing but kindness and prettiness of manner, she does not <em>have</em> one."</p><p>"Ah," sighed Mary, without malice, an indolent smiling playing about the corners of her mouth, "I was not mistaken, then, dear brother – you <em>are</em> an idiot."</p><hr/><p>"I'm telling you, I <em>did</em> hear him cry out your name," whispered Sophie in a low hiss. "He said '<em>Annie</em>' – in his sleep, I think – I heard it, plain as anythin'."</p><p>She and Anne were standing over a partly-faded chaise lounge on which the slumbering form of Tom Bertram was sprawled, fully dressed. He must have, as stood to reason, fallen asleep here in his clothes – perhaps an hour or so prior – instead of making his way to his guest chamber, where he usually slept.</p><p>Anne wrenched her hand free from Sophie's tightly clenching fingers, which had still been curled around her wrist a little too forcefully after dragging her here. "What nonsense. I cannot believe you would bring me down here for <em>this</em>. I ought to have remained in London – I was not so put upon there as I am here."</p><p>"But he <em>did</em>," she insisted, her voice going up a decibel or two. "He said your name. I <em>heard</em> him!" Then, a moment later, "Listen, it's quieter, but he's doing it again – look, his lips are moving."</p><p>Anne inclined her head slightly, leaning further over the chaise lounge. "No," said she, more gently, understanding now how the misapprehension most likely occurred, "he's not saying <em>Annie</em> – not at all – you're mistaken, Sophie. He says <em>Fanny</em>. Though his speech is slurred and quick enough to easily mistake one name for the other."</p><p>"But..." Sophie's pretty brow furrowed. "Who is Fanny?"</p><p>"I might venture a guess," Anne murmured. "Leave us for a moment, would you?"</p><p>Sophie left the room, and Anne shook Tom's shoulder. "Mr. Bertram, wake up."</p><p>Tom smacked his lips, groaned, and tried to roll over, but, gripping his shoulder more firmly, Anne shook him again until he was forced to respond. "<em>Mr. Bertram</em>!"</p><p>"<em>What</em>?" he grumbled, peeking at her irritably, one eye opened a mere slit.</p><p>"You were talking in your sleep."</p><p>Coming properly to his senses, Tom was yawning and sitting up, rubbing at his eyes and blinking rapidly. "Mmm, <em>was</em> I? Whatever<em> about</em>? Anything good?"</p><p>"Is your wife's name Fanny?"</p><p>Tom's cheeks darkened noticeably and he suddenly couldn't look directly at her without their colour steadily increasing. "Yes."</p><p>She smiled and sat down beside him. "That would explain it."</p><p>"Was that what I said?"</p><p>"Sophie thought you were calling for <em>me</em> – it sounded like 'Annie' to her."</p><p>He laughed, rather good-naturedly, at that.</p><p>"Were you dreaming about her?"</p><p>"I can't remember," he said, sounding honest enough – his cheeks might have remained hot if he were lying. Indeed, he sounded rather disappointed that whichever dream he had involving his Fanny should have vanished entirely from his mind upon waking, even holding just a little resentment towards Anne on that account, for forcing him out of it in the first place.</p><p>"Tom, don't neglect your family," Anne said quietly, holding her hands stiffly in her lap and staring into the middle distance with an unreadable expression on her face. "They may not always be there when you return. They're not going to wait for you forever." She sighed wistfully. "I know you probably think someone like me knows nothing about it, but perhaps I <em>do</em>. Perhaps I know more than you would suppose."</p><p>"Why should you?" He said this matter-of-factly, without intention of wounding.</p><p>"I was a gentleman's daughter."</p><p>Tom snorted. "Nah, I don't believe it."</p><p>"I <em>was</em>, once." She smiled. "How do you think I understand you when you speak French – or know so much about horsemanship, for that matter? D'you suspect the London gutters of being filled with spare tutors and riding instructors?"</p><p>This took him aback. He actually hadn't been paying enough attention during many of their more casual conversations to take note of the fact that, when he said something in French, or quoted Shakespeare in some oblique manner, it was usually – in the present company, excluding Mr. Yates and his valet, and perhaps his commissioner as well – <em>only Anne</em> who responded as if she knew what he was talking about.</p><p>"So," he said, new respect in his voice which hadn't been there before, "what <em>happened</em>?"</p><p>"I left them, after a quarrel – my family – and when I thought to return," Anne admitted, "they were not where I had left them. So I went away again, and I tried to forget – now the doors which would bring me back to them are forever barred."</p><p>"I'm sorry," said Tom, with sincerity. "I doubt you deserved such a fate."</p><p>"Go <em>home</em>, Mr. Bertram," she said, when at last she spoke again; "finish the damn portrait, collect your money, and go home – go home for both of us. You don't belong here."</p><p>"I never had any other intention."</p><p>"Neither did<em> I</em> – at first." And she rose and began walking towards the doorway.</p><p>Tom called after her – there was something he wished to know. "That story... The one you've just told me about your family, about you being a gentleman's daughter..."</p><p>"Mmm-hmm? What about it?"</p><p>"Is it <em>true</em>?"</p><p>"Does it matter?"</p><p>He cocked his head. "It's <em>not</em>, is it?" She<em> wasn't</em> of his class – she must have learned French and horsemanship some other way, though he couldn't imagine how. "You made it up, didn't you?</p><p>"You suspect me of being a lying whore?" She glanced at him over her shoulder, one eyebrow lifted, her steps ceasing.</p><p>He appeared slightly offended by the accusation, the teasing-tone it was delivered in notwithstanding. "Oi, I didn't <em>say</em> that!" If Tom could not <em>honestly</em> claim it was not what he'd said, he could at least protest it was not what he had<em> meant</em>.</p><p>Tom wasn't sure <em>what</em> he'd meant, actually – he was confused, hungover, and still partially groggy.</p><p>"It<em> might</em> be true, mightn't it?" said Anne, a little cryptically. "It might be <em>a</em> truth – one kind of truth. Many things can be true in their own way, even if they aren't exactly..." She trailed off. "Or it <em>could</em> be that, being what I am, I'm expected to know exactly what men need to hear – and I told you the truth I thought <em>you</em> needed to hear."</p><p>"For the <em>record</em>, Anne, regardless of who your family was... There was no chance we'd – you and I – would ever have... I mean, you're old enough to be my <em>mother</em>, right?" Tom asked, laughing, though the merriment was somewhat forced.</p><p>She <em>might</em> have replied that at approximately thirteen she had not <em>quite</em> been prepared for motherhood, but – as she had before – she smiled saucily and said only what she knew he wanted – what he <em>needed</em> – to hear.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. New Arrangements, Such As They Will Be</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Twenty-One:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>New Arrangements, Such As They Will Be</em>
</p><p>"You'll be <em>fine</em>, Fanny," said Edmund, lifting his knuckles and rapping on the heavy oaken door to Sir Thomas' study. "All you need to do is tell my father what you told <em>me</em>, what we discussed."</p><p>The knock was loud, not with intent to be insolent but with intent to be heard through the thick wood, and Fanny winced involuntarily. She thought she was very likely to take sick, and was thinking of how she might turn and run away without disappointing Edmund.</p><p>"It's really not important," Fanny murmured, when she could trust herself to speak without accidentally retching. "Your father has much greater concerns right now, I'm sure."</p><p>"It is not boldness," he sighed, "to ask him to consider making one small concession for your sake."</p><p>"But he has already done so much," Fanny pointed out, thinking of his taking care of the bill for her wardrobe, which was due to arrive for a fitting in only a few more days now.</p><p>Mrs. Norris never permitted her to forget that, not for one single moment, though she also seemed to firmly believe Sir Thomas allowing Fanny and Susan to continue living in the house after Tom's seemingly total abandonment of them was equally magnanimous and felt Fanny ought to bless him each morning for the grand privilege of having a roof over her head.</p><p>What <em>she</em> would say, if she knew what Fanny was about to ask Sir Thomas for <em>now </em>– what she'd brought up to Edmund in innocent, casual confidence, not supposing he would expect her to <em>do</em> anything about it – didn't bear thinking about.</p><p>Their aunt's response would be biting and angry, if caught with the news when she was feeling particularly <em>agreeable</em>.</p><p>"This <em>matters</em>, Fanny," Edmund said, after a long, sad pause. "We've all left it too long. Little as the matter may seem in itself, it reflects on you, as Mrs. Bertram, and on all of our treatment and acceptance of you."</p><p>Swallowing hard, Fanny reached up and pushed her blonde curls away from her face, trying to breathe evenly. Truly and deeply tempted – for the first time since giving it up forevermore – to bite her fingernails, she instead fiddled with the cross dangling from its chain around her neck, carelessly tugging and swinging the glittering amber pendant back and forth, back and forth.</p><p>"Do be <em>careful</em>, Fanny," whispered Edmund, close to her ear; "you'll break the chain."</p><p>She stopped at once, not wishing Edmund to think she didn't take proper care of his precious gift to her.</p><p>Sir Thomas called, "Come in," and her heart seemed to stop. She looked at Edmund, who opened the door and held it for her, with an expression of pure terror, which only intensified as – the moment she'd stepped over the threshold – he closed it, leaving himself on the outside. He was not coming in with her. He was making her do this on her own. She felt forsaken by the entire world, and wondered – frantically, desperately – how she would make words come up out of her rapidly drying-out throat and mouth.</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>," said Sir Thomas, looking up from a stack of paper he had been writing something on, and sounding – if nothing else – certainly amiable.</p><p>This might have been the first time Fanny could recall him appearing almost pleased to see her. If she were anyone else, another kind of woman, this might have made her braver and more comfortable. As it was, it eased her fear only minimally.</p><p>"Yes, child, come closer, there's no need to stand by the door." He gestured with two fingers and began to rise from his seat. "Can I do something for you?"</p><p>"If you are busy, sir–"</p><p>"No, no," said he, with level compassion, "I have nothing that cannot wait, and I have been meaning to take a break and see to how you've been bearing up – I know things must be trying for you, given recent events, and yet I never do hear you complain. And here you've gone and saved me the trouble of seeking you, by coming in to see me for yourself."</p><p>Did Edmund know this? Know Sir Thomas had <em>wanted</em> to see her? Fanny wondered, and supposed he couldn't have, though he – being more in-tune to his father's moods than she was – might have guessed it and chosen today for that very reason. <em>Clever Edmund.</em></p><p>"Are you unwell?" said Fanny, for lack of being able to get straight to the subject which was still a source of distress, only added to by his unlooked-for kindness. "You have been working very hard, I see."</p><p>"I'm no more unwell than can be expected, given all the shocks I've gotten one after the other," he replied, leaning one hand heavily on the arm of his chair and shifting from one foot to the other with a little groan as his joints loosened and popped. "None of which I blame <em>you </em>for, Fanny. Make yourself quite easy on that account."</p><p>The moment had come and Fanny wished it had not. It might, she feared, put an end to their unexpected pleasantness with each other. She wrung her hands and struggled to meet her father-in-law's eyes. "I think, sir, given appearances, and the fact that To–my husband has not returned home so there can be no practical reason to prevent it" – she coloured and dropped her gaze – "I ought to be moved from Edmund's old bedroom into my husband's chambers."</p><p>Her father-in-law was silent for a moment. Then, his expression wholly unreadable, "You <em>do</em>, do you?"</p><p>She held her hands more closely to herself. "Yes." Would he be very angry? Would he tell Mrs. Norris, leaving her to be scolded for her ingratitude? Or send for Edmund to remove her from his sight?</p><p>"It is possible," he conceded, "that I was too hasty in placing you – originally – in the attic-room with your sister, and I admit – between ourselves – very little good came from it, and I did feel the evils you faced as a result were most unfair.</p><p>"No bride, I imagine, wishes find herself locked out of her new home on the coldest morning imaginable. I do not think it could have been<em> your</em> idea, Fanny, to disobey me – I do know my son to that extent at least, even when his actions make him seem quite a stranger to me.</p><p>"I was guarding, you understand, against <em>Tom's</em> impulsiveness – not acting thusly in order to punish <em>you</em> – and it did not, in the end, bring about the desired results.</p><p>"Edmund, I fear, was right in that regard; but I was cross with him at the time for the part he, too, played in what transpired."</p><p>As he spoke, he'd stepped between her and his desk and begun to pace, meeting her eyes after each sentence.</p><p>"From what I have observed – and do not look so stunned, my dear, for, <em>yes</em>, I have indeed been observing you, in my way, though it did not appear so – I think too well of your character to suppose you will ever harbour resentment towards me – towards any of us here at Mansfield Park – for the slight given you in regards to your due as Mrs. Bertram."</p><p>"No, <em>indeed</em>, sir," cried Fanny, at once.</p><p>He seemed gratified by this. "The principal, on which you were subjected to many unfortunate privations and restrictions, was good – or at least<em> meant</em> for good – in itself. I fear it was carried too far in your case. Alas, when the husband is of one temperament and the wife is of the other, it can be – you must see – difficult to know how they should be treated as a pair.</p><p>"The restrictions I foresaw as possibly keeping Tom out of trouble if enforced straight away and not bent in the least measure, were – most regrettably – not beneficial in the least degree to <em>you</em>. I only hope they have not been detrimental in any lasting manner."</p><p>Moved, Fanny relaxed her hands and allowed them to fall to her sides. "I do not believe they were."</p><p>"Then we shall say no more about it," he decided, his footsteps slowing. "You will remove your belongings – such as they are – from Edmund's former room and into Tom's chambers whenever you see fit – within the hour, if it pleases you." His mouth twisted thoughtfully. "I shall even ask Baddeley whether a house-maid is free for the afternoon, if you feel you need assistance."</p><p>"Please do not trouble the staff on my account," Fanny told him, privately certain if there were anything – as unlikely as it seemed – she could not see to herself regarding the move, Edmund or Susan would help and have it done far more quickly than one of the judgemental house-maids might.</p><p>Sir Thomas nodded. "If you would have it thusly, I see no reason why not."</p><p>"I thank you, sir." She had to bite down on her lower lip to keep from smiling in relief and joy and pleasure.</p><p>To her surprise, her father-in-law then took her hands in his own and gave them a kind squeeze – a gesture which reminded her very much of his younger son. "I may have been disappointed elsewhere, in all this upheaval and madness, but in <em>you</em> – my dear – I suspect I'm further blessed than I had the right to be, given my harsh welcome."</p><p>Tears glistened in her eyes as he released her hands, straightened his waistcoat, and stepped back around the desk, sitting down in his chair again with a low, weary groan.</p><p>"As for Tom," he added gloomily, picking up his quill and settling his eyes back down onto his papers with fresh intensity, "we can only hope and pray he comes to his senses and returns home." Then, "You may go now, child, and see to your own affairs, if there's nothing further you require from me."</p><hr/><p>"What can be the meaning of this?" Mrs. Norris stopped before the open doors of her eldest nephew's chambers, halting so abruptly that her lace cap went slightly askew and she needed to reach back and adjust it into place once again to avoid it falling from her head. "For mercy's sake, child, what <em>are</em> you doing with that?"</p><p>Susan Price – who had been dragging a trunk – glanced at her aunt with feigned demureness. "<em>Why</em>," said she, in a voice of affected innocence, "I'm bringing my sister's things into her chamber. Whatever can you mean to ask me, Aunt Norris?"</p><p>The woman's nostrils <em>flared</em> – she perceived some insult to herself was meant here, though she could not pin it down precisely. Reporting Susan's rudeness to Sir Thomas, when she could not say exactly which words were the insolent ones, wasn't yet an option, and it put her further out of sorts.</p><p>For lack of anything else, she latched quickly onto the first thing to enter into her line of vision. "<em>Edmund</em>!"</p><p>Edmund, having just arrived in that part of the house, looked at his aunt with rather more genuine puzzlement than Susan's sidelong expression gave off. "Yes, Aunt Norris? Whatever's the matter?"</p><p>Choking up, she gestured with an ill-tempered flick of the wrist at Susan and the trunk, and she managed to squeak out something about the impudence and – with more clarity – the potential for the floors to be scuffed up, ruined beyond inexpensive repair.</p><p>Here, at least, was something Edmund could comprehend. "Oh, of course – how<em> thoughtless </em>of me!" He bent at the knees and reached for one end of the trunk. "Come, Susan, let me help you with that – at least until you make it into Tom's sitting-room – you shan't lift it high enough on your own."</p><p>And they were soon gone from her direct line of slight, vanished into Tom's chambers, chattering to one another good-naturedly, giving little simpering words of gratitude back and forth, as if they were up to no mischief at all.</p><p><em>Shameless</em>, thought Mrs. Norris. <em>Quite without any degree of shame.</em></p><p>Then Fanny carrying some cloth and a workbox in her arms – an old dress she'd been mending, and altering the frayed skirt to, tossed over one shoulder – appeared, her countenance unusually cheerful and sort of <em>humming </em>to herself, and the outraged Mrs. Norris decided to unleash her full, pent-up fury on <em>her</em>.</p><p>"<em>You</em>!" she snapped, glowering fiercely. "This is all <em>your</em> doing, I shouldn't wonder. You always <em>are </em>going about making trouble, whenever there isn't any to be readily gotten, aren't you?"</p><p>"Forgive me, Aunt Norris – I do not understand why you are cross with me," she murmured, staring down at her workbox rather than meeting her aunt's eyes. "What have I done to upset you? I'm only moving my things into my rooms."</p><p>"<em>Your</em> rooms?" she gasped, pressing a hand to her heart. "Your rooms <em>indeed</em>!"</p><p>Fanny blanched, and her grip on her workbox tightened and turned her splayed knuckles quite equally as white as her blood-drained face, but she remained steady.</p><p>Mrs. Norris took – as much as she took note of it at all – Fanny's firm stalwartness in this moment for mere wilfulness of spirit; it did not endear her to her niece. "And who do you suppose, you thoughtless girl, will pay to keep such a large fireplace as there is in Tom's sitting-room alight when Tom himself is not in residence?"</p><p>"Sir Thomas has said I may move into these chambers."</p><p>"Surely not," argued Mrs. Norris, lips pursed. "I'm certain of there being some mistake. Your uncle would never, never agree to such an unnecessary indulgence, I'm sure. Do not, by any means, make yourself comfortable until this matter is resolved." She snapped her fingers, hoping – rather in vain – to call Edmund and Susan forth, back into the hallway. "I shall speak to your uncle, and he will..."</p><p>The rest of her shocked speech did not matter, because he did <em>not</em>, in the end, do whatever it was she said he would.</p><p>Sir Thomas, once he regained his somewhat rumpled composure after being called out of his study while he was deep into his affairs, hastily assured Mrs. Norris that he <em>had</em> given Fanny leave to move into her husband's chambers; the girl was acting on his orders, had not stepped out of line, and – while he certainly appreciated the, should he say, <em>attentiveness</em> in this matter – her insistence on correcting Fanny's error was gravely misplaced.</p><p>"Well," said Mrs. Norris, at the last, cheeks sucked in and eyes narrowed, "nothing – positively nothing, whatever – shall surprise me after this! <em>Nothing</em>! I will only say that Fanny is a very fortunate girl indeed.</p><p>"First you foot the bill for an overly extravagant wardrobe which was not economised on in the least, even where it might reasonably have been, then you give her leave to use some of the most lavish rooms in the house despite there being no real call for it – she was perfectly cosy in Edmund's old room, and too free with the fire as it was.</p><p>"You've been <em>most </em>generous to her. Well beyond anything which could be expected. She ought to be very obliged to you, I'm sure." She turned, then, to look – so she supposed – at Fanny critically, adding, "I believe you have something to say to your un–" She stopped, mouth parted. Fanny was not there (she had been signalled, by a little darting eye-twitch from Sir Thomas, that she might, if she was swift and quiet, leave in the middle of Mrs. Norris' speech); she had fled. "Well, upon my word! What a shocking trick that is!"</p><p>"Oh, and there is no need, my dear Mrs. Norris," said Sir Thomas, biting back a tiny smile, "though I know it is all well-intended, of course" – he held up a hand, silencing her before she could interrupt – "to monitor her fire now that she has changed rooms. She may be the best judge herself of when she needs a fire – we are not all so hardy as yourself."</p><hr/><p>Fanny, for her own part, except for her relief at having just escaped Mrs. Norris (she was almost more grateful to her father-in-law for such an unlooked-for mercy as <em>that</em> than she was for the usage of the rooms), had far less than she'd anticipated to smile about once she returned to Tom's – to <em>her</em> – chambers.</p><p>The fire was merry and crackling to the point of being fairly <em>roaring</em>, of course, and all her few worldly possessions were there to greet her half unpacked in the sitting-room, which cheered her up rather a good deal at first, but she was alone, and the rooms were enormous, and she so wished Susan and Edmund had remained and were there to greet her and to sit with her a while.</p><p>Left to her own devices, she began to put some few things in order, and – opening the workbox – stumbled upon the handkerchief Tom had left with her in Portsmouth – before they were married, while he was still waiting for her answer to his proposal, when he'd brought her those raspberries for her headache...</p><p>Running her fingertips over his embroidered initials – thinking how, once, he had been willing to sit with her while she slept and leave without recognition, and now he could not even bear to be home with her – she began to cry.</p><p>Once, in all fairness, she realised bitterly, she too had been different in her regard of him – of the man she'd married.</p><p>She'd really thought, back then, she could simply accept his love for as long as he might be willing to give it and afterwards endure his disinterest. She'd suspected she could somehow live off the memories, off the relative comfort. And now she found only pain in them, in those same beautiful memories, because she wanted him back so badly it hurt beyond measure, and – worse still – did not <em>want</em> to want him back – not if he himself did not want her.</p><p>Oh, why did Tom not <em>write</em>, at the very least?</p><p>Was he so wrapped up in his disreputable friends – in the merriments Mr. Owen had witnessed and reported to them – he did not think of her at all?</p><p>What could she have possibly done to make him disdain her so?</p><p>Didn't he know she loved him still? Couldn't he imagine she missed him? Shouldn't <em>that</em>, at least, count for something?</p><p>The worst part was the feeling that even those few memories she <em>could</em> manage a halting smile at before the tears came were all worth nothing if there was no way of being sure he ever meant anything by them.</p><p>She wondered why he'd gone through the trouble of marrying her at all, if mere loving and then leaving had been his aim all along.</p><p>Could it really have been only to upset his parents?</p><p>Or was it, <em>that</em>, yes, but a kind of<em> pity</em> as well? Had he felt sorry for how she lived in Portsmouth? Had he thought himself doing a charity bringing her here to Mansfield Park instead?</p><p>Had he reasoned, perhaps, having once enjoyed the pleasures of a wife, he could leave off any interest in the gentler sex for ever after, and simply go about gambling and partying and drinking without another care in the world?</p><p>Been there, done this thing.</p><p>Edmund did not know it, but Fanny had learned – because it had somehow gotten to Mrs. Norris, as everything did eventually, and she couldn't help but mention it within Fanny's own hearing, more than once – about Sir Thomas' initial idea to permit her to separate from Tom if she so wished. Fanny was relieved, beyond expression, he had never put the question to her, glad it had not been offered after all.</p><p>Because, in her heartbreak, she feared she might have accepted and, in so doing, doomed herself to further unhappiness.</p><p>By the time Fanny came downstairs to take supper with the rest of the family, her eyes were red and her countenance no better, no more merry, than it had been when she'd come down to them from Edmund's old room the day before.</p><p>Mrs. Norris, pointedly straightening her already perfectly aligned silverware beside her plate as she spoke, pounced on this immediately. "I should think to find you far more jovial, Fanny, given how blessed you are, all you've been given this day – I hope you are not becoming spoiled, or taking on a habit of sullenness. It is a detestable habit in <em>any</em> young person, particularly one such as yourself."</p><p>Susan squeezed her hand under the table, gritting her teeth and cutting her eyes coldly at Mrs. Norris, and Edmund shot her a sidelong glance of warm empathy when his aunt was not looking at him, but she – though she felt guilty, seeing how many people still loved her even if Tom and, <em>obviously</em>, her Aunt Norris did not – couldn't bring herself into more raised spirits, even by way of pretending (she could not <em>act</em>), or manage to eat very much of what was put in front of her before asking to be excused.</p><p>But at least she had her own proper chambers – which had long been due to her as a married woman – now to retire to after Sir Thomas nodded his assent to her leaving the table.</p><p>Yes, there was <em>that</em> much comfort, for what it was worth.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. With Love, To Wimpole Street</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Twenty-Two:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>With Love, To Wimpole Street</em>
</p><p>"D'you know, Bertram, old bean," said Mr. Yates, sounding gratified and slightly wistful as the flick of a whip was heard and the carriage began to move under them, the wheels clacking along the slightly uneven shoreline road and the horses' hooves rhythmically<em> clip-clop</em>ping, "I don't think I've ever, in my life, had such an exceedingly <em>pleasant</em> send-off."</p><p>"Oh, yes," Tom replied, his tone vague, closing the curtain and sinking back into the seat beside John's valet with visible relief. "Most pleasant, most agreeable. Jolly good show all around."</p><p>Mr. Yates laughed good-naturedly. "You're a thousand miles away, my friend – and I don't think we can mean the same thing." He smiled at Tom cutting his eyes at him. "For myself, I've never been pinched and kissed farewell so heartily by anyone. Nor given so many sheaths of paper loaded with songs and plays." Aside, nearly rhapsodising, "Oh, such <em>generosity</em>! I can't wait to read and perform the lot of them. Your brother said you played a little on the piano, I think, did he not? I'm certain he did – when he was warning you off marriage in Portsmouth, I believe it was. You might accompany me on some of the songs whenever we stop off some place with a decent pianoforte. That will be when we reach Mansfield, I expect." Then, backtracking and continuing on his original thought as if he'd never veered off from it to begin with, "Much less offered so many good things by way of imploring me to consider extending my stay after all."</p><p>"No," agreed Tom, still distant, his chin resting on the knuckles of his closed hand, "you're right, John – we cannot mean the same thing."</p><p>"Whatever <em>is</em> depressing your spirits, though?" Mr. Yates wanted to know. "Don't tell me you've grown fond of Anne – she did seem something of a favourite with you, a preference <em>was</em> there, noticed even by one so thick as myself – and are sorry to leave her?"</p><p>Tom lifted his head and, sounding more like himself than he had all morning, snorted, "Good God,<em> no </em>– if I'm less than the picture of merriment, it's only fear of something yet preventing my leaving. Even if it is only my own foolishness."</p><p>"Your commissioner has given you full payment – what was left of it after your excessive card-playing, that is, though I don't say so to <em>scold</em> you, only as a <em>fact</em> – and sent you off with a good will," Yates pointed out. "I can imagine nothing preventing you. You're certain it's not Anne you're Friday-faced over?"</p><p>Indeed, he <em>was</em> – Tom was more certain of that than he'd ever been of anything in his life. His head and heart were full of Fanny, of his own Mrs. Bertram – <em>only </em>of Fanny Bertram. She was the uncontested preoccupation of his heart as far as any person on earth was concerned. If Sophie or even Anne, older and wiser though she was, <em>had</em> allowed themselves to grow very fond of him in any irreplaceable manner during his extended stay, they only doomed themselves to an unrequited passion until such a time as they might learn to forget a little.</p><p>Tom told Mr. Yates as much, though with rather fewer words to spare, for a heavy, pensive exhaustion seemed to hang over him, dampening his normally energetic spirit. His current, lazily slouched posture in the carriage-seat was just the smallest bit reminiscent of his mother, Lady Bertram, sitting in her same place as ever on the sofa in the drawing-room of Mansfield Park.</p><p>"I thought," said Mr. Yates, his tone somewhere between relieved and surprised, "you might have developed a fondness, if not for Anne, then probably for pretty little Sophie." He gave a small cough. "She was, in some manner, fond of <em>you</em>, at any rate. Though, I confess, I'm glad enough it's dear old Fanny you still like best, after all, given she's already your wife and waiting for you at home. Makes things a great deal less complicated, you know." Then, "D'you not think, Tom, that in some respects, in the correct lighting, if you squint a bit, poor Miss Sophie looks a little – a <em>very</em> little, mind you – like your own dear sister Julia?"</p><p>He did not.</p><p>"I suppose," said Mr. Yates, with a sigh, "you're correct – Sophie's nose is too small for her face. Julia hasn't that problem."</p><p>"No, not at all," Tom replied in a blank tone which might have been taken one of two ways, "she never has and I daresay never will."</p><p>Mr. Yates, blinded by good-natured affection on both sides – for the brother and the sister alike – took it the nicer of the two ways, as wholly complimentary, and agreed heartily.</p><p>Tom nearly wished his friend could have been offended, by way of picking up his <em>real</em> meaning rather than supplying him with the purest intentions in his own mind, and that he might have thusly been spared twenty-minutes rhapsodising on his youngest sister's shapely nostrils and the perceived perfection of her face in general.</p><p>Those who were offended, Tom was aware, as a rule, were usually prone to giving out silent glowers.</p><p>But there was no telling when one who felt positively <em>encouraged</em> might be inclined to stop talking.</p><p>Tom's next words, when he was finally able to get them in, were not so much to Mr. Yates, or to his half-asleep valet, as they were his own private pondering spoken aloud.</p><p>He'd become, in so short a time, all too used to hearing a voice<em> saying</em> every single thing it thought – even if it was only the very dull thoughts of Mr. Yates, which no one had asked or desired him to share – to realise his own deliberation was not, just then, audible solely within his own head.</p><p>He wondered if his appearance ought to be fixed up a bit before he arrived at home again. He was aware he smelled less than appealing from having been bathing in the sea, rather than in his commissioner's rusty baths, for so long, his current scent probably reminiscent more of a fishmonger than a gentleman, and that his hair had grown out somewhat more than he was strictly used to letting it. He was fairly sure it had not been so long as it was now since he'd been in Antigua without a proper barber.</p><p>Tom was not enough of a fop, generally, to care too much about this, his private vanity notwithstanding, and if it were only Edmund and his father – and even his mother – he was thinking of returning to, he might have given the state in which they'd first see him rather little consideration.</p><p>But he thought of <em>Fanny</em> – his pretty wife he pictured sitting in the drawing-room beside his mother, doing some crude needlework, perhaps sewing one of those decorative pillows that were all over the house for some reason – and vanity pricked at him relentlessly.</p><p>He desired greatly that her first impression of him after so long be a pleasant one, as he was sure would be the case in reverse.</p><p>Mr. Yates, for his part, responding though Tom had not meant to ask for an actual response, couldn't think up any way of fixing this, unless his friend were to sneak around to the back of the house when they arrived and clean up, as best as he could – with, of course, the most willing help of Yates' valet, who was always ready to perform a shave and a trim at a moment's notice – before sneaking down to the drawing-room and surprising Fanny.</p><p>Tom liked the idea, upon initial consideration, but he gradually came to suppose that someone – one or other of the staff, if not a member of the family, probably hawk-eyed Aunt Norris – would see the carriage and spoil the surprise before it could be enacted.</p><p>Fanny might even, given a warning, be the one to sneak up on <em>him</em>.</p><p>They rested on the side of the road that evening, not coming upon any suitable inn in time, the only posting-house in view very likely being lice-ridden, and Tom slept very little (Mr. Yates, his valet, the driver, and the horses were all prone to snoring loudly; and highwaymen might have been reasonably rare in those parts, but Tom still half expected them, as he dismally expected anything which might further impede his return to Fanny).</p><p>They had better luck the following night, Mr. Yates even being able to rent out a parlour where they could sit by a nice fire and have drinks while the driver saw to the horses outside, but Tom sipped his own glass of French brandy morosely, expressing himself – such as he did – to be very put-upon and ill-used indeed, because it had not been his own idea to stop there; he had wanted to go on further.</p><p>Sometime later, during the day following this, they were approaching London, and the driver was slowing, asking if they'd prefer to go through the city or around it by way of getting to Mansfield Park.</p><p>And what a change was there! <em>Mr. Yates</em> was prepared to tell his driver to go around, while it was <em>Tom Bertram</em> who advocated for going through the crowded city wherein he might not only be slowed but also tempted.</p><p>"What change of heart is this?" said Mr. Yates, in understandable surprise. "You, who acted so cross over an inn, wishing to go through London as if it were a mere bridge and could hold nothing to halt your way. Can this really be my friend Bertram asking this?"</p><p>"I have a mind," said Tom, shortly but not unkindly, "to make a visit – yes, John, we'd stay the night, and be delayed once more, but I think you would not object so readily if you guessed my errand."</p><p>"Hadn't you better keep some of the money from your commissioner," suggested Mr. Yates, "in case of tolls or the like? Not that I wouldn't assist, and it <em>is</em> my carriage–"</p><p>"I'm thinking of the one place in London where I'd be tempted to hold my savings like a miserable old miser – where I wouldn't want to share a farthing with anyone present, much less find myself nailed to a card-table with them," Tom explained by way of not really explaining at all; "if – and I admit I do doubt myself a little in this – I could count upon my own will-power not to become wearied of the company that awaits me and leave for some happy tavern in the middle of the night."</p><p>Mr. Yates was puzzled, downright mystified. "What would be the purpose of such a place, I wonder – sounds absolutely dismal, if you ask me."</p><p>"Oh, for myself, it's <em>beyond</em> dismal – a tedious stop, I assure you," laughed Tom; "but I could at least bathe and get the scent of the ocean off myself before going on to Mansfield Park in the morning."</p><p>"Very well, do as you like – if you'd really have it so," Mr. Yates agreed haltingly, for he could not venture a guess – this was all getting rather beyond him.</p><p>Tom reached to knock up against the carriage roof. "<em>Driver</em>," he called, banging thrice, "with my host's permission" – and he looked, then, at Yates, who shrugged – "we'll go <em>through</em> London. I wish to make a stop on Wimpole Street."</p><hr/><p>Fanny's new wardrobe had arrived and the fitting had gone well – or, that is, well enough that Mary Crawford did not proclaim it a complete disaster, which garnered Edmund's praise and Susan's begrudging acceptance of Mary's taste and suggestions not being entirely without merit – and Mrs. Norris had had her say about its needless extravagance, which everyone was so accustomed to prior to the clothes arriving that they paid her words being reiterated now very little mind.</p><p>Mary insisted upon fixing Fanny's hair before she could model some of her new finery for them all, and she'd agreed to it – since Mary would not, in her wheedling way, accept a refusal – half expecting it would be some more of what Miss Crawford had done previously, a simple pinning up of it, and was surprised when, instead, Mary – taking out a pair of silver scissors – trimmed the front of her hair more closely so that her ringlets might be coiled tighter and higher and spent a good deal of time plaiting the back intricately before pinning it in place.</p><p>"I don't know how I'll keep it all neat," Fanny remarked, and felt it most keenly despite having done her hair in plaits and ringlets many times for herself in the past and never having thought her own efforts the least bit shabby before.</p><p>Mary was gratified. She gave her a loving pat on the shoulder. "You'll do fine, I'm <em>sure</em> – now, see how lovely you look." She held a hand-mirror up in front of Fanny. "What do you think?"</p><p>She thought she didn't recognise herself, and did not know how to answer, in spite of an answer's being plainly expected. She murmured something about being very grateful and, taking the offered mirror from Mary, placed it face-down on the dressing-table with a shaky hand and an even shakier smile.</p><p>"I have something of an offer to make to you, Fanny." And Mary placed, beside the mirror Fanny had just set down, her opened jewellery box. "I thought you might like one of these, for your pretty amber cross."</p><p>Fanny glanced down at the near-blinding array of pretty gold necklaces and her hand rose automatically towards her own neck to touch Edmund's chain protectively. "I've already got a chain."</p><p>"But only the one, and it is so <em>simple</em>." Mary lifted up a necklace. "And I have a great deal more than I can ever use myself. Quite the collection, as you can see."</p><p>Stammering, Fanny managed to refuse, perhaps too bluntly, and Mary – suddenly cross and closing her box with a frustrated <em>click</em> – left her alone for a moment, and – to Fanny's surprise – it was <em>Edmund</em> who came back to her rather than Miss Crawford.</p><p>"Oh, <em>Fanny</em>," said he, with a chastising shake of his head, "I think you've hurt her feelings – she supposes her gift was not wanted."</p><p>"I only meant," she rasped out, leaning back in her chair and craning her neck to look at her cousin, "that I already had yours and she did not need to part with one of her possessions on my account."</p><p>"She was severely mortified," admitted Edmund, with sorrow, "but I told her as much as you've just conveyed to me now – that you did not mean it as she took it. I guessed your reasoning very easily."</p><p>"<em>I</em>–"</p><p>"Don't distress yourself, Fanny – I shall call her back in and tell her you will accept the necklace, if it means so very much to her." In a lower voice, he added, "Mine will be perfect for ordinary use, and if there is ever a fancy occasion, or if you know she is coming to dine with us, you might wear her necklace <em>then</em> – whichever one she means to give you. All of her jewellery, even the pieces she has no current use for, is better than anything I could think to buy you; you <em>must</em> be aware of that." And, in parting, as he strode towards the door and set his hand on the handle, "Your hair looks very nice, by the way – it was Miss Crawford's doing, was it?"</p><p>The door closed behind him, and Fanny put her face into her hands and groaned softly.</p><p>So, although she didn't wish it, Fanny was obliged to accept one of Mary's necklaces. She took the one she thought must be the least valuable, the one Mary seemed most to be nudging her towards choosing, though it was still entirely too fine, and allowed Mary to slide her beloved cross off Edmund's chain and string it onto this thicker, fancier and – in Fanny's opinion – much too short one.</p><p>For a moment, a single joyous moment, Fanny thought the cross would not fit on the necklace, that it would not <em>go through</em>, and the scheme would have to be given up, but Mary, pouting, gave a little <em>tug</em> on the thick chain and the cross slid into place as if it, too, could not refuse Mary Crawford no matter how much it might wish to do so.</p><p>"Here, let me fasten it for you," Mary said next, fixing the clasp behind Fanny's neck. "There. It is perfection, and it suits your new dress so well! I <em>knew</em> it would!"</p><p>Though it galled her a bit, Fanny's conscience pricked her into saying, with true enough feeling by the time she got the words out, "I will think of you – of how kind you were to give it – every time I wear it."</p><p>"That is very sweet, and over such a trifle," said Mary, grinning to herself. "The cross is a gift from your brother, is it not?"</p><p>"Oh" – and Fanny's smile was less hesitant, on safer ground now – "<em>yes</em>."</p><p>"Well, then this very necklace and your cross were meant to be together," she said merrily, "because the cross is from<em> your</em> brother and the necklace was from <em>mine</em>."</p><p>Fanny flushed scarlet and lifted her hands in a flutter to the clasp. "Oh, I cannot–"</p><p>Mary's mouth parted. "Goodness! Whatever's the matter?"</p><p>"I can't take your brother's gift – it is too precious a thing."</p><p>"Nonsense! He's given me hundreds of gifts," she insisted, trying to calm Fanny and urge her hands back down, "he can well afford it."</p><p>"He will think," was Fanny's final, desperate attempt, "I did not come by it honestly."</p><p>"He will think nothing of the sort!"</p><p>Tears pricked at her eyes, coming out so far as to dampen her eyelashes and turn them from dry pale gold to a moistened amber almost the same hue as her cross, and she blinked them back furiously.</p><p>Oh, if only the necklace had been originally purchased by anyone – <em>anyone in the whole world</em> – save for Henry Crawford, who already – she felt – gave her too much unasked-for attention as it was.</p><p>But she did not unclasp it, and she wore it with her new dress and pretty rose-coloured pelisse, and Henry – who was waiting at the bottom of the staircase with Susan and Edmund for her to make her appearance after Mary's efforts were completed – saw it and looked<em> pleased</em>, outright beaming when he noticed it shimmering at her throat, which to her was far, far worse than angry.</p><p>She'd almost <em>hoped</em> he would be angry, that he would not want her wearing it, distressing as a scene made over his anger at her perceived thievery might have been.</p><p>"Presenting," announced Mary Crawford, from the landing, "Mrs. Frances Bertram."</p><p>To complete her distress, Fanny tripped, on the final step, and – because he got there before Edmund could – it was Henry who grasped her arm and straightened her.</p><p>She murmured her thanks, before staggering over to Susan, quick as she could, on the pretence of showing her sister the embroidered details on the sleeves of the pelisse, including her scripted and entwined initials <em>F.B</em>., but all she could think was how she'd have greatly preferred to have been permitted to fall flat on her face instead of Mr. Crawford's touching her and seeming so unnaturally <em>glad</em> of the occasion for doing so.</p><hr/><p>"Oh, it's <em>you</em>," said Maria Rushworth, reaching up and pertly straightening the short sleeves of her evening gown.</p><p>When her husband's butler had informed her that her brother was at the street-door, come at dusk with a companion in an unfamiliar carriage, she'd vaguely anticipated Edmund and one of his fellow downy clergymen he was always bringing around with him – Mr. Owen, perhaps, or that annoying Mr. Tilney man who never stopped talking about his wife and telling the story of how they'd met in Bath and his father, who Maria judged from the story to be even stricter than her own, had mistaken her for an heiress.</p><p>Less than exciting company, to be sure, but dependable in their way.</p><p>She had not expected <em>Tom</em>.</p><p>"My dearest Maria" – and Tom, with greatly exaggerated fondness, held his arms open – "how the devil are you?"</p><p>"<em>Tom</em>." She leaned forward and kissed him on both cheeks as quickly as possible and wrinkled her nose. "So good to see you. Why didn't you send word you were coming?"</p><p>"Aw, would it have made any difference?" he simpered, his mouth pursed and his head cocked to the side.</p><p>She affected a forced laugh. "<em>None</em>."</p><p>Tom and Maria were not, and never would be, nor desire to be, Fanny and William.</p><p>If anything, they were something like what Mary and Henry Crawford might have been if they were rivals in childhood and did not – for all their teasing and scolding – really esteem one another rather too highly when all was said and done.</p><p>Some siblings, like Tom and Edmund, are born to misunderstand each other until the day – in the future, following some life-altering event – they can, if they are willing, on fate's fixed upon hour and not a minute sooner, learn to love one another.</p><p>Others, like Tom and Julia, are born to regard each other as not quite a <em>friend</em> but as a benign acquaintance who will never mean them any real, specific harm.</p><p>Then there are Tom and Maria.</p><p>It would not be true to say they hated one another – indeed, if Tom were to pick one of his siblings out as an accomplice for some scheme, Maria would – and many, many times had been – his first choice, and they – once joined together in a common cause – were bizarrely inclined to stand by one another far longer than it was strictly convenient for either of them to do so.</p><p>And, yet, somehow, they could not – in honesty and good faith – say they really loved one another, nor that they harboured good-will or desired the happiness of the other.</p><p>As<em> Maria Bertram</em> she'd barely tolerated Tom, when he was home, and cried to her Aunt Norris whenever she felt his persecution of her was too great to bear.</p><p>Later, though, as Maria Rushworth, she was never certain <em>how</em> to receive him, <em>how</em> to cope with him and all the trouble he always seemed to be in, and her uncertainty – which she felt to be childish and demeaning and beneath her station in life – made her feel short-tempered with him simply for existing, whether he'd actually done anything – that is, <em>recently</em> – or not.</p><p>Her eldest brother always had made her feel vaguely claustrophobic, even before her marriage, before her escape from the evils of home.</p><p>Still, as Tom had readily anticipated, she invited him – and his Mr. Yates – in and ordered their things unloaded from the carriage and brought inside the house.</p><p>"Please make yourselves at home," she said, with tense – somewhat put-on – grandeur, "supper will be served in an hour. And we do <em>dress </em>for mealtimes here, in case you've forgotten."</p><p>"<em>Ahhhh</em>," called Tom, in rather a sing-song voice, lifting an arm dramatically and gesturing outwards with his raised top hat, "good night, Wimpole Street!"</p><p>"You<em> know</em>" – Maria, colouring, spoke through gritted teeth – "how exceedingly I <em>hate</em> when you do that."</p><p>"And that is<em> precisely</em>, my dear girl," said Tom, lowering his arm and permitting himself to be dragged fully indoors by an irate little sister, "why I do it every time I visit."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Traps, As They Appear To Be</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Twenty-Three:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Traps, As They Appear To Be</em>
</p><p>Tom Bertram had just begun to properly <em>enjoy</em> the warm bath Yates' valet and two of Rushworth's staff had heated for him, feeling as though he were soaking away untold <em>ages</em> of sand and saltwater and turpentine, was finally returning to himself, when an older, rather stringy-voiced maid-servant knocked at the door to remind him what time supper was served.</p><p>As though he didn't already know.</p><p>As though he didn't have an unnaturally <em>loud</em> mantel clock directly in his line of vision, ticking away like anything.</p><p>"Yes, yes, <em>fine</em>," he called, slinging an arm over the side of the tub and rolling his eyes dramatically for the benefit of no one except himself; "I'll be out directly!"</p><p>"Very good, sir – I'll tell Mrs. Rushworth to expect you presently." Her heavy, thudding footsteps began to soften, muffling themselves with merciful distance as she walked away.</p><p>Groaning, Tom scooped up a generous fistful of the bathwater in his two palms and splashed it onto his face, running his damp hands through his hair and slicking it back.</p><p>As he rose from the tub, he made considerable efforts to drip onto the woven rug by the fireplace as much as possible – it looked expensive, and he thought getting water on it might vex his sister. He was aware, of course, how it was a silly, pointless revenge she'd probably never know about, given the damnable rug, probably none the worse for a little soaking despite the delicate material, would be dry again by the time she had any business coming into this guest room – and he himself would probably be long gone, more than halfway to Mansfield Park, where dearest Fanny awaited him – but it made him feel a twinge of satisfaction, all the same.</p><p>He wiped his feet dry on it, too, for good measure, vaguely hoping some dead skin got caught under the fibres.</p><p>Downstairs – where he arrived, with playful deliberateness, exactly one minute late and raised an eyebrow at Maria, as though daring her to say anything about it – he was greeted by Julia, who'd been whispering in an alcove to a beaming, enraptured-looking Mr. Yates.</p><p>"<em>Tom</em>!" she cried, pulling away from Yates and running to her brother as though she was genuinely happy to see him – and she believed, in her way, that she really <em>was</em>, perhaps a little.</p><p>"<em>Ah, dear Julia</em>," Tom laughed as she embraced him and took his arm. "Look at you! If it wasn't for that protruding <em>beak</em> of yours" – and he reached down and tweaked her nose affectionately – "I nearly wouldn't have recognised you – Maria's got you all dressed up for supper like we're expecting Queen Charlotte. You look positively <em>tippy</em>." Mr. Yates was on his other side now, and Tom – looping his free arm through that of his smiling companion – hissed, from the corner of his mouth as an aside, though not with any <em>real</em> venom, "I thought I told you to stay away from my sister."</p><p>"What nonsense," laughed Julia, pouting at her brother. "I picked this dress out myself, I'd have you know – Maria had nothing to do with it."</p><p>"It's very fine," said Mr. Yates.</p><p>Tom snorted, "Yet I imagine her husband's money had a great deal to do with purchasing it."</p><p>"And why not?" Julia said with a half-shrug, entirely unruffled. "There are worse things in the world than a generous brother-in-law."</p><p>"Will we <em>see</em> anything of Mr. Rushworth this evening, or are we only to hear his praises and whistle hosannas from afar?" Tom asked as the three of them disentangled themselves from one another so they might take their seats, ignoring an already seated Maria's deepening glower at their over-the-top merriment and her brother's exaggerated flamboyance.</p><p>"My husband," said Maria, answering for Julia, "is away at the moment, but he trusts me to manage the household in his absence. He trusts me <em>implicitly</em>."</p><p>"My dear girl," laughed Tom, "anyone can manage a house which practically runs itself by routine. I imagine I could train one of my horses to do it."</p><p>She made a face but gave no answering remark to a comment she believed – perhaps rightly – was made only to provoke her.</p><p>The meal would have been a quiet one, save for Mr. Yate's bright chatter, and his attempts – almost unceasing, each one immediately following the last – to make Julia smile or laugh. He tried to be gracious to Maria as well, distinguishing her in the way that gentlemen very often distinguish the sisters of the women they admire, but not so much that Julia could suppose he actually <em>preferred</em> Maria.</p><p>Tom privately suspected this was the main reason Julia even permitted John Yates to pay her so much attention in the first place. One brief meeting at a masque party and a couple of light compliments tossed both ways before parting did not seem so very likely to have the same enrapturing effect on Miss Julia Bertram (now simply <em>Miss Bertram</em>, since Maria had married) that it had on Mr. Yates. Poor John might have been half in love with her after that meeting, quite thoroughly infatuated, but his feelings were not so readily returned without further prompting. She might have forgot him before two days had gone by. He did not possess a memorable charisma of the sort Julia had – at least in past dealings, which had disappointed her expectations – believed she valued in a gentleman. However, the fact that she seemed to be the first choice, the preferred sister, notwithstanding that Maria was already taken – which had never mattered greatly <em>before</em> – was enough to make her play at love a little more willingly.</p><p>Tom wondered if Julia realised, if it ever crossed her mind, how well he understood her probable reasoning – wondered if she knew he sometimes felt over-shadowed by Edmund the same way she did by Maria.</p><p>It was true their Aunt Norris had never favoured Edmund above Tom the way she petted and adored Maria more than Julia, in such things her experience was very different to his own, but that did not account for everybody else.</p><p>Sir Thomas never got that disappointed look in his eye when<em> Edmund </em>was speaking to him which seemed to haunt <em>Tom</em> whenever he walked into a room. It was quite often as if his father was, the moment he showed his face, <em>already</em> wondering what his wayward eldest son had done wrong and how much it would cost to mend or smooth it over, how deeply the family would be humiliated <em>this</em> time.</p><p>And even Fanny – his beloved wife, his sole reason for returning home and facing his scandalised family's scorn and ire, bless her – well... Tom had seen the way she'd looked at Edmund the first time she met him, the first time she laid eyes on him in person. And he saw how she treasured the chain Edmund had given her. He was reckless, but he wasn't <em>stupid</em>; he knew too well, with painful acuteness, if Fanny had met his younger brother first, she'd never have fallen in love with <em>him</em>.</p><p>Though he'd been loath to show it, what Anne had said – the night he danced with poor little Sophie – it... It struck a nerve.</p><p><em>Is it because you're afraid someone else already does it so much better than yourself, that you feel you aren't </em>needed<em>?</em></p><p>Yes, and so what?</p><p>He'd been feeling that way all his life. Edmund was only the one year younger, and he was <em>perfect</em>.</p><p>Tom understood what it meant, how important it could feel, to be <em>anyone's </em>first choice. For that reason, above others, he could not think of trying to divide Julia and John, to spoil their fun in any active way, though it would have been, he knew, the wiser thing to do. They were not fit for each other. Furthermore, Sir Thomas Bertram would not want the likes of <em>Yates</em> as a son-in-law. Not that Tom had ever chosen wisdom in anything where there was another option, or let his father's wishes dictate even his <em>own</em> marriage...</p><p>The food, served on gleaming pearl-white plates for each marvellous, over-blown course, was a credit to Rushworth's staff, but its quality did not surprise Tom in the least – one needed only to have set eyes on Mr. Rushworth <em>once</em> in order to ascertain he enjoyed the meals cooked by his servants.</p><p>It was the wine served in tall faceted crystal, gold-rimmed glasses which Tom was most pleased with, and – as his sister never objected to his drinking – he had at least four glasses with his meal (he'd stopped actually <em>counting</em> after three, so it might have been five), even though he was wholly aware further drinks – certainly brandy, if it was too causal an occasion for <em>champagne</em> – would be served in the drawing-room afterwards.</p><p>By the time they retired there, getting up from the table so the servants could clear away the remaining dishes, Tom was already rather glassy-eyed and approaching a sloshed, uninhibited state of being.</p><p>Julia and Mr. Yates played happily with a stack of anagram gaming tiles. Mr. Yates repeatedly spelling out little phrases such as <em>Hello, Miss B.</em> or <em>Lovely </em>and then sliding them over to her.</p><p>"For pity's sake, Mr. Yates, that's <em>not</em> how it works," Julia tittered, cheeks darkened, shaking her head and removing one of the letters from the middle of<em> Lovely</em> and replacing it at the front. <em>Elovly</em>. "See? You're supposed to mix it up – I'm meant to<em> guess</em> the word."</p><p>Tom sipped his brandy and lolled against the arm of a sofa, looking askance at Maria, who sat primly on the other side of him, between himself and Julia and Mr. Yates.</p><p>She set down the glass of wine she was nursing, placing it beside the anagram tiles, and blinked disapprovingly at Tom. "I hear you got married."</p><p>"Oh, yes," said Julia, half-listening, more engaged with explaining how the tiles worked to Mr. Yates, who she was quite certain was only feigning continued ignorance of the game in order to amuse her. "<em>Congratulations</em>, I suppose."</p><p>"I half suspected you were up to something unsavoury when Edmund wrote asking if you fancied anybody – you who never pay attentions to anybody – I almost thought he was having me on, but it was still quite a shock hearing from Aunt Norris that you'd married one of our Portsmouth cousins."</p><p>"Hang on." Tom frowned, attempting to sit up a little straighter, with limited success. "Are you telling me you <em>knew</em> about them? About Mother and Aunt Norris having another sister and her marrying William Price and being left in a state of pig-stealing poverty?" His countenance was considerably darkened, kept from outright disgust only by the counterbalance of visible shock and the numbing effects of his brandy. "Or was this just something our Aunt Norris revealed to you in her most recent letter?"</p><p>"Honestly, Tom" – she rolled her eyes – "if you <em>listened</em> sometimes to things said between our parents and aunt in private family moments, rather than drone it out with whatever nonsense it is which constantly flies through your head, maybe you'd know a thing or two."</p><p>"That's not an answer."</p><p>"I knew they <em>existed</em>, of course," said Maria, sighing. "I know nothing <em>about </em>them – why <em>would</em> I? I would wager considerable money if I told your wife Father's fortune came from tea in Antigua, she'd probably think it was a <em>shop</em>."</p><p>"You'd <em>lose</em>. I reckon my pretty little Fanny," he slurred coldly through clenched teeth, "has got more wits about her than your silly husbandman Rushworth ever dreams of having, and that's on a <em>good day</em>."</p><p>She reached for her wineglass, picking it back up and bringing it to her pursed, tense lips. "Rushworth is worth <em>two</em> of our ignorant cousin."</p><p>"Aye – on a <em>scale</em>, perhaps."</p><p>She did not argue the point, perhaps because she knew when a truth – however disagreeable – had been brought into a matter which could not be talked away through pretty words. She might have had pretty words to spare, all the same, if she <em>loved</em> Mr. Rushworth, but as it stood she had no affection for her husband to sharpen her words, only displeasure at her brother to tighten the lines about the mouth which would have said them.</p><p>She drank her wine, and Tom reached for the nearest decanter to top himself off.</p><p>When she spoke again, it was to say, "But, really, Tom, teasing aside, what <em>could</em> you have been <em>thinking</em>?"</p><p>"Perhaps," he replied, blinking coolly, "I thought I would rather marry a <em>person</em> than a bunch of fancy properties."</p><p>"That's easy to say when you're already an heir," Maria retorted. "Besides, you know what an honour it was to–"</p><p>"Bag Rushworth?" He arched an eyebrow. "Yes, I <em>know</em>, sweet sister, I was there for a fair quarter of your simply heart-warming courtship. The most <em>timeless of love stories</em>, as I recall it. From the moment I returned from Antigua and saw you holding back his arm and a retch at the same time, I could see there was indeed little love to be lost between the pair of you." He smirked. "Well, on <em>your </em>side at least – poor Rushworth had – I'd imagine still has – some private delusions you've no intentions of availing him of, poor fellow."</p><p>Maria's fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass, clenching harder with each word Tom spoke – it nearly snapped under the pressure.</p><p>"But that kind of love, as much as I envy you it" – his voice fairly dripped with mockery – "wasn't for the likes of me."</p><p>"It's quite amazing, isn't it" – her voice was nearly a whisper – "how you can speak so lightly of my marriage, implying yours was some sort of grandiose love-match, when you've been – for quite some time now – living with women of ill-repute in Weymouth without so much as sending word back to your long-abandoned wife at Mansfield Park?" Her eyes flashed. "One could almost suspect you of being hypocritical."</p><p>Tom's eyes widened, but otherwise his expression betrayed precious little. "<em>Where</em>," he snarled, leaning in, "did you hear about that?"</p><p>"Oh, it might have been Aunt Norris..." She tapped a finger against her bottom lip. "Or it may have been Edmund..." Her tone was sweet – too sweet. "Perhaps it was Mr. Owen – you remember Edmund's friend Mr. Owen, don't you?"</p><p>Tom's throat constricted. He felt rather unwell. In the back of his mind, something <em>flashed</em>, bursting like fireworks.</p><p>Dancing with Sophie; her asking him what was wrong; his reply, how he thought a certain man had been watching him...</p><p>A man he could not place for the life of him.</p><p>
  <em>He's probably taken me for someone else in the dark. I'm sure that's all it is.</em>
</p><p>It had been Edmund's friend.</p><p><em>That</em> was how he knew the gentleman watching him that night – why he looked so strangely familiar.</p><p><em>Damn</em>.</p><p>"They all <em>know</em>?" asked Tom, as steadily as he was able, inwardly trying to convince himself Fanny would certainly forgive him, that probably – by now – she already had. "At home? They all know where I've been?"</p><p>Maria sighed, her spite dissipating slightly. She almost sounded <em>pitying</em>. "Honestly, Tom! You couldn't have supposed they wouldn't find out?"</p><p>"Maria, <em>don't</em> look at me like that – it is hardly as if you've never done anything you're ashamed for the family to know about."</p><p>Her brow lifted.</p><p>"Oh, <em>yes</em>?" Tom sucked his teeth. "Very well, then. As you like. Have it your way."</p><p>Mr. Yates and Julia had been ignoring their conversation, still continuing to tease each other.</p><p>Julia put her hand over that of Mr. Yates and, curling her fingers around it, guided his fingers over a tiled letter and helped him slide it towards the back of the word. "For the last time, Mr. Yates," she giggled; "like <em>this</em>."</p><p>"Ah, <em>yes</em>," he said with resounding tenderness. "I do believe I've got the hang of it now. You're so very patient, Miss Bertram. So very patient and good to a silly dunce like myself. I don't believe there's a sweeter creature in the whole of the world."</p><p>"Right." Tom leaned forward and, reaching over, swatted their hands away and clumsily scooped up a handful of tiles. "I beg your pardon, I need to borrow these."</p><p>"<em>Rude</em>!" cried Julia.</p><p>"Steady <em>on</em>, old bean – we <em>were</em> playing with those," was the only remark to come from Mr. Yates on the matter, spoken with very little conviction.</p><p>Waving them off, Tom formed a word, then slid it to Maria. "You were <em>saying</em>?"</p><p>
  <em>FCRAWODR</em>
</p><p>She got the idea – she would have had to have been not only far more stupid than her own self, but also ten times duller than her husband and his parents combined before she was dim enough to miss what Tom was doing, what his nasty implication was.</p><p>With an angry swipe of her hand, she cast the tiles to the floor. She would have, undoubtedly, liked to make the same motion in the direction of her brother's face, though she – with all the restraint of an amiable hostess she could muster – resisted.</p><p>Julia – confused for a moment, not fully understanding the argument between her elder siblings, bent over to pick the scattered pieces up, so she and Yates might go on with their far more innocent game, and saw the rearranged word – saw <em>CRAWFORD</em>, unmistakably – and she <em>flinched</em>.</p><p>"<em>Tom</em>," she said shakily, getting to her feet and stomping to the doorway, "proper names are not<em> allowed</em>. You <em>know</em> they aren't."</p><hr/><p>It had not been, of course, Tom's intention to hurt Julia's feelings as well as Maria's – it would never have occurred to him to think to wound <em>her</em> any more than it might occur to him to kick his mother's pug randomly upon exiting the drawing-room at the conclusion of an average evening at Mansfield – but he was not particularly agonised over the result of his actions, either.</p><p><em>Mr. Yates</em> was more upset – as he was bound to be upset at anything which brought a frown to a face he admired – but even he did not chastise Tom, or look at him with any lingering displeasure. How Tom Bertram treated his little sisters in private was very much his own affair, and it was taken for granted that he must have his reasons.</p><p>The effect on <em>Maria</em> was just as Tom might have wished it, however.</p><p>She had not one more ugly word to say in regards to his marriage to their poor cousin for the remainder of his visit.</p><p>Whatever Maria – when she'd still been Maria Bertram – had or had not done with Henry Crawford during their father's absence in Antigua, from which Tom alone returned early, it was enough to give her notable pause before making strong statements on the propriety of <em>his</em> behaviour with Fanny Price in Portsmouth.</p><p>Not that he would have admitted it to any of his siblings in a thousand years, but there <em>were</em> times, admittedly, when Tom sometimes had enough awareness to question if he would have been so very scrupulous in his behaviour there if dear Fanny had been less innocent-natured, less standoffish, less of a shrinking creepmouse during their courtship. Probably he wouldn't have been, his inexperience at the time notwithstanding. He never claimed – even to Fanny herself – to be pious. He never <em>thought</em> to be. Not even for her sake. <em>His</em> sort of goodness was all a matter of convenience, of circumstance. Still, it had all turned out looking well for him on that front, and even if Maria wished to insinuate that it might have turned out differently, the point <em>was</em>, it <em>didn't</em>.</p><p>One unforeseen happening which resulted from his spelling out <em>CRAWFORD </em>with those tiles, which Tom – and this did him little enough credit – didn't have strong feelings on one way or the other, was a sort of fresh rift between Julia and Maria.</p><p>Old wounds had been carelessly reopened.</p><p>Mr. Crawford had, from the start of their joint acquaintanceship with him, been a source of contention between the sisters – both having felt keenly they each had the better claim to him.</p><p>Maria saw herself as everything her Aunt Norris had always proclaimed her to be, and as such she'd thought – if Mr. Crawford would make his intentions known in time – she should gladly have him instead of James Rushworth, Sotherton Court and a house in town or no; while, Julia, on the other hand, had seen it as finally,<em> finally</em> being <em>her</em> turn, her chance to shine, to be beloved – even Aunt Norris, who championed Maria in all things, saw her favourite as being all settled on already and had been hoping for a match between <em>her</em> and Mr. Crawford.</p><p>But when Maria was clearly preferred to herself, Julia had felt her hopes slipping away.</p><p>Her hopes might really have been maintained, despite early disappointment, if Maria had rebuffed Mr. Crawford's attentions, citing her forthcoming marriage as her reasoning, rather than permit them. In truth, watching her sister with him, she'd lost her own affection for Crawford; she'd remembered, suddenly and with a clarity she could not believe she had ever lost, that he was not handsome, not particularly desirable when you looked at his features alone without his pretty, elegantly murmured words to smooth their edges into something far nicer to behold. She'd forgotten Henry thusly, and very nearly forgiven him. He'd acted as he had because it was what he was. She might sooner have stayed cross at a duck for quacking, flying, or swimming. His vanity would have been easier, even before then, to forgive, if it had not so sharply wounded her own tender feelings.</p><p>But her sister?</p><p>Oh, how could she forget <em>Maria's</em> selfish vanity?</p><p>She'd thought, for a while, perhaps Maria's inviting her to come away from home, first to Brighton, then to live with her in London after her wedding, was something of an olive branch, and she'd taken it eagerly, as glad to leave Mansfield Park as if she were leaving it with a husband of her own. Gradually, she'd come to suspect, though, she might actually be there only as a buffer between James – it still felt strange to call Mr. Rushworth that, even in private, and usually she forgot to – and Maria.</p><p>Still, she'd taken the good with the bad.</p><p>Now Crawford's name had been brought up again, because Tom's nature was too base to resist the lowest point of an argument in order to win (he wholly shared Maria's qualities of entitlement and ruthlessness), and old resentments stirred, blown up into the stale air like so much unsettled dust.</p><p>The sisters could hardly bear to look at one another and recall that name – the one sister still in love with him, the other sister not the least still in love yet very much humiliated to have to admit she'd once been.</p><p>Or very<em> nearly</em>, anyway.</p><p>And so, one way or another, it was decided Julia should quit the London house – for how long was not mentioned – and perhaps remember the evils from which Maria had rescued her by going home with Tom and Mr. Yates.</p><p>"Our Aunt Norris," said Maria, too sweetly, when all was settled and Julia's bags were packed, "will be very glad of seeing you again, I believe – it's for the best."</p><p>"Yes," replied Julia, biting down hard onto her lower lip, then releasing it. "Perhaps she will even find me a husband this time – she'll have so little distraction now, with you and Tom both married off."</p><p>"I hope she does," was Maria's simpering answer, her curled fingers tightly interlocked, her countenance stormy, and her eyes fairly <em>glittering</em>. "And I hope he's as wonderful as my Rushworth – you <em>deserve</em> it."</p><p>Mr. Yates was the only one in the group to look remotely discomfited on Julia's behalf, and he hid any betrayal of his feelings by turning away and coughing into a handkerchief.</p><p>Tom – talking more to the driver and valet than Mr. Yates right then – was more concerned about Julia's luggage, which he felt to be excessive. His own things were few enough; he had taken little to Weymouth with him initially; but between all of the things Mr. Yates had dragged along when he'd come to fetch him and all of the extra goods they'd been given on their departure, Tom felt there wouldn't be enough room for his little sister to transport no less than five hat-boxes.</p><p>"If she would but put four hats to a single box–" he began, sighing, and was immediately interrupted by Julia <em>and</em> Maria (who was still listening) protesting that such storage would <em>ruin </em>the best of hats and bonnets and didn't he know <em>anything</em>?</p><p>There was nearly a fresh quarrel over this matter, as Tom flatly <em>refused</em> to have any of his sister's silly, over-trimmed belongings in his lap for the journey, but things were amiably resolved when Mr. Yates offered up both his own lap and that of his valet to hold anything which could not be secured to the carriage roof or tucked under their feet.</p><p>Tom, growing sullen, then muttered something about wishing he'd crept out the night before, had drinks, gambled, and then packed himself off via stage coach at first light. (How easily the former evils and his vow never to utilise public transportation again were forgotten in his aggravation!) He comforted himself only with the knowledge that he would look fresh enough when Fanny witnessed his return, not stale and glassy-eyed and rumpled, which was the whole reason for stopping over in London to begin with.</p><p>And so, with Mr. Yates gallantly offering his hand and Maria, now returned into her lovely, grand house, watching them from the window, Julia was assisted into the carriage.</p><p>She did not permit herself the agony of looking back, of glancing around before she ducked inside, of catching one last glimpse of town, of all the pleasures and freedoms she was leaving behind her in London.</p><p>Strangely enough, however, <em>Tom did</em>.</p><p>It was not at the city's pleasures, though, or with longing for what he was leaving (Fanny trumped all of it, at least for the moment); no, rather, it was with a strange apprehension.</p><p>His eyes happened to meet those of his sister in the window, and he found himself hearing what she must be thinking, sensing her wretchedness in a way he was unused to.</p><p>She looked trapped.</p><p><em>I can't get out, Tom,</em> her eyes seemed to be shouting. <em>Rushworth is a fool and I'm so unhappy, and I cannot </em>get out<em>!</em></p><p>He did not care, not exactly, only he was left with the unshakable feeling that he was bringing the wrong sister home with him. Julia might be more tolerable, but she was still free, still her own self, somehow, while Maria was in distress.</p><p>Why she should be in distress, having all she wanted, all she'd ever claimed to want, was anybody's guess.</p><p>And yet...</p><p>And yet...</p><p>There were horses Tom had seen shot, because their worth was up, who looked more hopeful than Maria Rushworth in that damnable window.</p><p>Tom <em>blinked</em>, almost sympathetically.</p><p>To his astonishment, Maria put three fingertips to the glass pane.</p><p><em>I'm sorry, I can't help you, sister. Aunt Norris can't change a wall or persuade Father to rescue you from this one, my dear, foolish girl. You're on your own now. I'm </em>sorry<em> – truly.</em></p><p>She let her hand fall and stepped away, vanishing into the house, her jaw set and her eyes hardening. Of course Tom would not help her – of <em>course</em>. He always was good for nothing at all, save to stir up trouble wherever he went.</p><p>It was beginning to rain – lightly – a misty drizzle softened by curls of wispy grey fog.</p><p>Tom shut the carriage door with a <em>click</em> and, grunting, plopped down into his seat beside Mr. Yates' valet, opposite to Julia and Mr. Yates, who seemed to have been whispering between themselves while he took his time getting in.</p><p>Yates smiled brightly at him once he was seated. "Are you ready to go home, my dear fellow?"</p><p>Tom arched an eyebrow and cocked his head, as though questioning the seriousness of his companion's inquiry. Mr. Yates must know he'd been ready to go home, ready to see his wife again, for what felt like forever and a day.</p><p>Aloud, all he said was, "By all means."</p><p>And Mr. Yates – pulling back the curtain and dangling his head out the window – called to the driver and there was a <em>flick</em> and they were moving.</p><p>At last.</p><p>Tom lolled his head, letting it roll and rest on the back of the seat. He shut his eyes and smiled contentedly.</p><p><em>Maria</em> might find herself unable to get out, unlucky girl, but he felt his own freedom, his own sense of rising hope, with more keenness in this home-bound hour than he thought he ever had in his entire life prior.</p><p>His full-body tranquillity was suddenly interrupted by Julia shrieking at the top of her voice and kicking up her feet with such haste she knocked him in the shins.</p><p>Tom bit back an oath – quite literally, quite<em> physically</em>, his teeth coming down hard on his bottom lip. There was some small amount of blood. When he could speak again, he cried, "For mercy's sake, Julia, what the devil are you–?" He stopped, then, mid-sentence – he saw for himself.</p><p>It was a mouse.</p><p>A little mouse running around the floor of the carriage.</p><p>A field vole with golden fur, vaguely the same colour as fine wheat – female, probably, judging from its size.</p><p>Mr. Yates was exclaiming he had never had vermin in this carriage before and it was surely some mere oversight, and certainly Julia must not be too distressed, all most irregular, didn't she know.</p><p>For her part, Julia ignored him and kept on screaming.</p><p>Tom wondered how she managed not to pass out – how she did not faint dead away – making that incessant noise without the slightest pause for breath.</p><p>"Julia!" he snapped, holding up a hand. "Julia, stop! Julia – <em>shut up at once</em> or it will be my unfortunate brotherly duty to reach across this carriage and slap you!"</p><p>"I <em>say</em>!" cried Yates. "Isn't that a bit extreme, Bertram?"</p><p>"She's bloody <em>hysterical</em>!" protested Tom, rolling his eyes.</p><p>The valet – a heavy blunt object, perhaps his own boot-heel, in hand – was rising to strike the mouse, which – poor thing, though it still squeaked quieter than Julia shouted, was in terror of its own – ran about in helpless circles.</p><p>Tom felt his chest tighten. "You complete <em>idiot</em>." He stayed the valet's hand. "There's no need for that."</p><p>"Ugh! Oh, Tom, don't <em>touch</em> it!" cried Julia – for indeed Tom was leaning forward and picking up the mouse, frozen in terror, in his hands with unexpected gentleness. "It's <em>filthy</em>."</p><p>"Come, come. It's only a <em>mouse</em> – and, honestly, I think she's rather <em>pretty</em>." And he placed, to his sister's visible horror, the little golden-furred creature in his breast pocket, snug and safe under his greatcoat. "I shall place her outside at the next stop."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Returns, Not So Very Welcomed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Twenty-Four:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Returns, Not So Very Welcomed</em>
</p><p>The day, for Mrs. Bertram, had not started out favourably.</p><p>Fanny wouldn't have minded being in the drawing-room – accompanied by Lady Bertram and Susan – with her needlework spread across her lap, nor would she have minded listening to Edmund read aloud from Fordyce's Sermons.</p><p>But two discomforts had arrived – just after breakfast – which vexed her, perhaps uncharitably, and they, both discomforts alike, shared the name of <em>Crawford</em>.</p><p>Mary's company was displeasing because Miss Crawford was in what Edmund cared to refer to as a 'playful mood', and of which Susan quite readily had a more colourful and – possibly – <em>apt</em> description, and she <em>would </em>keep on making faces at Fanny's poor, flustered brother-in-law while he read.</p><p>Fanny thought this highly unjust of her. Edmund's reading itself was good, being just what a parson's ought to be – he neither suffered from Tom's inclination to read too fast, nor that of Mary's brother to read too theatrically, even if, objectively, Henry's performance was actually a very good one – so the objections expressed by her screwing her face and wrinkling her pert, pretty nose were all towards the <em>material</em>. She thought little of Fordyce and respected Edmund not at all for admiring his work. Though, to be sure, she might have sneered at <em>any</em> sermon, as she did not like his profession to begin with and probably viewed his ordination as the unfortunate thing which had come forever between what might have been happiness for them both. Between Mr. Edmund Bertram and all hope of a large income, and thus between Mr. Edmund Bertram and herself.</p><p>To make matters worse, Edmund – in hopes of giving Miss Crawford <em>some </em>little degree of pleasure in the visit – had persuaded Fanny to wear the necklace Mary gave her.</p><p>The awful necklace which had originally been the brotherly gift of Henry Crawford.</p><p>She'd not wished to wear it, especially as Mary and her brother dropped by so unexpectedly and she hadn't had any time to reconcile herself to the sacrifice, when she had so recently been obliged to wear the dratted thing at supper not two nights prior.</p><p>A compromise which, actually, pleased nobody at all, Fanny herself the least of all, was made and she sat there in the drawing-room wearing both Edmund's chain<em> and</em> Mary's strung through the ring of William's cross together.</p><p>It looked – for all her best efforts – utterly <em>ridiculous</em>, and she felt as if she were being jointly strangled by them. The back of her neck ached dreadfully, sore and pulsing at the base – her head, she felt certain, would follow suit by the middle of the afternoon.</p><p>Henry was worse than Mary. Fanny might really have endured<em> ten</em> of his sister before she felt equal to enduring him on such an ill-favoured, cross day as this.</p><p>He smiled endlessly; he offered to thread her needle for her; he offered to make Edmund 'put away that gloomy, dull book' so that <em>he</em> might 'read something which would doubtless entertain a beautiful creature such as Mrs. Bertram so much more readily'.</p><p>"You need only say the word, Mrs. Bertram," he had told her saucily, stating his rude offer enough times that Fanny – if she were a more violent sort of girl – being quite at the end of her rope – would have wanted to throw a book at his head as soon as have him read one, however good his voice might be.</p><p>"Oh. Oh, no. I am quite enjoying listening to my brother read the sermons – though I thank you most kindly, to be sure," was the only reply she managed, largely unheeded.</p><p>Mary laughed, half teasing, half mocking, "You think yourself above mere lurid poetry, my dear Mrs. Bertram?"</p><p>"No, I do not," sighed Fanny, shaking her head and stabbing her needle downward, nearly pricking her finger by mistake in the process. "I just think Fordyce makes good points and Edmund puts it well."</p><p>"Oh," added Lady Bertram, rousing and shifting in place on the sofa. "I think Fanny likes poetry very well indeed – she spoke of how much she enjoyed that piece you read before, Mr. Crawford. When you were here with us the other night, I believe it was. The <em>heavy</em> stuff, not usually to my own taste, but well done by <em>you</em> to be sure – like being at a play."</p><p>Fanny's countenance darkened and she wished for an excuse to take her from the room but could invent nothing sensible and furthermore ran the risk of running into Mrs. Norris in the hall, should she make her escape, which was just leaping from the pan into the fire.</p><p>"I expect," Lady Bertram continued, "it is a favourite of yours as well."</p><p>"It will be," said Mr. Crawford, smiling. "From this day forth, if Mrs. Bertram so approves it, how can it be otherwise?"</p><p>Edmund cleared his throat.</p><p>"Oh, of course, my dear," apologised his mother, realising he'd been quite cut off by this discussion. "Forgive me – do go on."</p><p>"Where were we?" He turned a couple of pages.</p><p>"Well beyond <em>that</em>, I think," said Mary Crawford. "Perhaps you'd better flip to the<em> end</em> of the book." She smirked prettily. "Or close it altogether."</p><p>Susan rolled her eyes and sneaked – with no objection from Lady Bertram – a bit of tart crust to Pug.</p><p>Edmund began to read again, then stopped, looking up, his eyes darting towards the doorway. "Ah." He placed his thumb between the pages and looked very sombre. "The prodigal son returns."</p><p>Susan inhaled sharply then released a gasp, but it was<em> Fanny's</em> heart that stopped for a beat then raced wildly, drumming so loud in her ears she could hear nothing else.</p><p>Could he mean...?</p><p>Tom?</p><p>
  <em>Tom.</em>
</p><p>Tom was back.</p><p>"Aye, brother, and he brings <em>company</em> – fresh from London. I've Julia and Yates along with me."</p><p>Yes, it was Tom's voice.</p><p>Swallowing, Fanny stood, her needlework falling to the floor, her hands all a-tremble.</p><p>How could she bring herself to turn around – to <em>look</em> at him?</p><p>Emotions she could not show ripped through her insides bursting within her like fireworks.</p><p>He'd <em>see</em> – she was sure of it – he'd see it in her eyes the moment their gaze met. He would see she was angry, that she knew he no longer loved her, and that she could not reconcile herself to his disinterest and abandonment.</p><p>
  <em>Mercy.</em>
</p><p>But he was <em>beautiful</em>!</p><p>So beautiful.</p><p>Love stirred in her at the sight of him.</p><p>He was a prince from a fairy-tale as far as looks, whatever they were worth. Clean and bright and tall, elegantly groomed, swanning in as if brought hither by some miraculous contrary wind.</p><p>The light around him, shining from the window, seemed to glow, giving him a pale yellow aura.</p><p>To have such a well-looking husband, with such a smile and expression in his eyes, and to know you were disregarded, if not outright despised, by him!</p><p>And seeing him like this, after so long...</p><p>How could Fanny be asked to endure it?</p><p>It was too much to ask of any woman.</p><p>"Hello, Fanny" – he was all brilliance, all brightness and cheer – "did you miss me?"</p><p>She made some strangled noise – a noise that might have been a sob or might not have been – and, weighing her chances against meeting Mrs. Norris, fled past him, leaving the room in such a hurry she did not even look upon Julia, who'd been eyeing her with vague curiosity, or greet Mr. Yates.</p><p>"Oh, well<em> done</em>, Tom!" growled Edmund, tossing his book onto the nearest chair with evident disgust.</p><p>"Good God, brother! What <em>can</em> I have done<em> already</em> to invoke your ire?" cried Tom, his own mounting disappointment making his warbling voice crack. "I've only just <em>got</em> here."</p><p>"You really don't comprehend much of anything, do you?" sighed Edmund.</p><p>"Oi, <em>careful</em>, Edmund" – he stepped toward his brother and leaned in so that the others present in the room could not as readily overhear – "d'you realise there was almost <em>pity</em> in your voice for a moment there? Your self-righteous indignation is slipping. You'd better be careful, or your limited humanity might show." He motioned over his shoulder. "Now, about <em>Fanny</em> – she looks a little different. Did she change her hair while I was gone?"</p><p>Edmund opened his mouth to speak, to say even he was not certain what, when they were interrupted by their mother.</p><p>"Come here." Lady Bertram beckoned to her eldest child wearily. "I do hope you've a kiss for your poor, exhausted mother. I've gotten resigned to your absence – Edmund can manage things just as well as you, it's quite extraordinary how smoothly he arranges matters, so considerately that we scarcely notice any change at all – but it's most pleasant to have you back with us. I'm glad you married Fanny as you did, after all – despite how unhappy you made your father about it – because at least we shall always have <em>her</em> when you go away." She glanced at Susan – who she did not seem to realise was glaring at Tom, silently punishing him and wishing him ill for building up then spoiling the happiness of her beloved sister – and added, lovingly, "And dearest Susan, of course. I shall never be able to do without <em>Susan</em>."</p><p>His tone slightly demurred, Tom said, without meeting his sister-in-law's diamond-hard eyes, "How have you been, Susie?"</p><p>"As well," said she, folding her mending and neatly putting her needles and remaining thread away in her aunt's workbox, "as can be expected, <em>Mr. Bertram</em>."</p><p>"Did you know, Tom, Pug had her litter while you were away?" Lady Bertram asked, as if it were – above all other topics which might be brought up – of the utmost importance, and of great interest to everybody present. "I've given our dear Fanny one of the puppies; it wanders about the house and hides quite a lot – timid thing, not so bold as its mother – you might never see it yourself if you are not often home." To her daughter, she added, "Julia, my sweet, if <em>you</em> see it, I hope you will be good and leave it alone – you always liked to tease poor Pug when she was that size, as I recall."</p><p>Julia's cheeks flushed scarlet and she tried her very best not to look at Henry Crawford.</p><hr/><p>"You weren't at supper," said Tom, entering his own sitting room and – after kicking off his boots – kneeling beside the chair where Fanny sat, staring off with what was plainly forced cold disinterest into the crackling fire. "You weren't hungry?"</p><p>Fanny said nothing.</p><p>"My father told me you moved into my chambers while I was away – a most agreeable development, that."</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>"Fanny – talk to me, <em>please</em>."</p><p>Her lower lip trembled and, in a jerky motion, she reached up and wiped away a stray tear that escaped the corner of her eye.</p><p>Reaching over the arm of the chair, Tom's fingers brushed her sleeve.</p><p>She flinched and pulled away.</p><p>"Come now" – he flashed his despondent wife a merry grin – "can you really tell me you're even not the smallest bit glad I've returned?"</p><p>"I'd much <em>rather</em>," she whispered, more to herself than to him, "you hadn't gone away."</p><p>His hand urgently sought hers – attempting to take it, to entwine his fingers with hers – and she wrenched it out of his grasp. "<em>Fanny</em>."</p><p>"Do you never<em> think</em>–?" she choked off, unable to finish.</p><p>He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "Is this about <em>where</em> I've been? Mr. Owen, I believe, spoke to you... Regarding my whereabouts." Standing up, he padded across the carpet to where a decanter was left behind the fireplace tools and – taking out the glass stopper – began to tip it in order to pour himself a glass before realising it was empty. "<em>Damn</em>."</p><p>"Yes, I know all about that," whispered Fanny.</p><p>"Listen, so we're clear, there wasn't..."</p><p>"Yes?" Her pale eyebrows came close together.</p><p>"There wasn't anybody else."</p><p>She'd never supposed there <em>was</em>. A romantic affair was simply not – and likely never would be – Tom's style. "No, there couldn't be – you'll never like anybody so well as you like yourself."</p><p>"I<em> say</em>, that's rather harsh, isn't it?" Especially coming from someone so ordinarily sweet as his wife... Whatever had gotten into her? "Fanny, I'm telling you, I <em>never</em>–" He halted, drawing in another sharp breath. "There are no secrets between us." With that, he walked away and reappeared before her with his sketchbook in hand. "Look, see what I was doing for yourself."</p><p>Fanny opened the sketchbook and in a single glance took in the unclothed forms drawn there. Averting her eyes, she shut it again, sliding it down her lap, away from herself. "Why would you show me this?"</p><p>"It was <em>commissioned</em>," Tom explained, quickly judging he might have made a misstep here.</p><p>"That doesn't make it better!" she cried, furiously thrusting the sketchbook all the way off her lap and back into his outstretched hands. "Why you would lend your talents to–"</p><p>He set the sketchbook down on the floor beside the chair. "I only did it so I could come home to you, creepmouse."</p><p>Tears spilled down her face.</p><p>"<em>Oh</em>..." He lifted his fingers to her cheeks to wipe them away, but she turned her head.</p><p>"What you did was <em>wrong</em>," she croaked, staring at her own clenched hands. "But you can't see it, can you?"</p><p>"It was foolish of me to go away so ill-prepared, I know–"</p><p>"<em>Foolish</em>!"</p><p>"But, I mean, all's well that ends well, isn't it?"</p><p>"No, it jolly well isn't, Tom!" fumed Fanny, beyond indignant. "Do you not see how shameful–"</p><p>"For <em>pity's sake</em>, Fanny – don't speak to me of shame, as if it were some holy concept too pure for the likes of my sinful, black soul to understand. You sound like <em>Edmund</em>," he snorted, nostrils flared, his risen voice saturated with unrestrained disgust. "It's like I went away and came back to discover I'm married to my <em>brother</em>. What's <em>happened</em> to you since I left? Whatever insipid ideas that pompous parson of a brother-in-law who can't stick to managing his own blasted concerns has put into your pretty head, you'd best–"</p><p>How dare he! What right had he to speak so? None! None at all. He'd <em>left</em> her, left her in this strange place with people who'd been – all except Susan – near-strangers, with no hope, no help – no idea what she was meant to <em>do</em>...</p><p>Only Edmund, the brother her runaway husband now judged so harshly, had gone out of his way to secure her education, to give her a measure of security, perhaps even of happiness.</p><p>All the anger, all the rage she'd been holding back – every twinge of unhappiness, fear, and discomfort brought on by Mrs. Norris and her cruel comments, by Henry Crawford and his looks which lingered just that littlest bit too long – felt as if it, every last sick drop of it, would flood through her veins now and drown her from the inside out.</p><p>As if it were unattached to the rest of her being, uncontrolled by her other rigid muscles, her hand unfolded and shot out and...</p><p>Crack.</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>!" Tom's hand was pressed to his stinging, flaming cheek as he staggered back in complete shock, eyes wide.</p><p>She buried her face in her hands, weeping steadily. "I'm sorry – I'm sorry – I'm so sorry." <em>Forgive me.</em></p><p>Lowering his hand from his cheek, he grasped her arms as she – a silken shawl thrown haphazardly over her nightclothes, slipping off one shoulder – tried to leave the room. "It's all <em>right </em>– you didn't hurt me."</p><p>She sniffed. "Let me go. <em>Please</em>."</p><p>His hands slid down from her arms to her wrists and squeezed lightly. "Stay with me." His eyes, their playfulness present but greatly diluted, were hard but his tone was relenting, even benevolent. "I'll speak <em>nicely</em> – or sit beside you in brooding silence if you'd prefer it."</p><p>She shook her head, pulled free, and – as if in a daze – staggered to the door and walked – in the dark, blinded by tears, without even a stub of a candle for aide – to Susan's attic-room, where she threw herself into her sister's open arms.</p><p>"Poor Fanny" – her tear-stained face betrayed her wretchedness – "what happened?"</p><p>She was almost too ashamed to say it – it came out strangled and muffled, murmured into Susan's shoulder. "I struck him." She shook with sobs. "We quarrelled and I <em>struck</em> him."</p><hr/><p>Mary Crawford was standing beside her harp, lightly fingering the strings, plucking absently. She lifted her head when she heard her brother enter the room – the hour was late, and she was surprised to see him still up and about.</p><p>"I expect you're mourning over the loss of your game," she said after a moment. "Tom is returned – looking very well, I must say – and so you must give your attentions to Fanny up – and they've only brought <em>Julia</em> back with them. Leaving no one else for you. Poor Henry. I know you have to have <em>someone</em>, but you'll need to wait until your return to London for it. There's no helping that."</p><p>Henry looked at her as if she'd sprouted an extra head. "Give up Fanny?"</p><p>"Tom may not be the cleverest man to ever stride the earth, Henry, and certainly not the soberest, but he isn't <em>Rushworth </em>in wits – not by any stretch." Mary set her jaw. "I think he'll notice someone flirting with his wife."</p><p>"No man, I shouldn't think, truly dislikes another man admiring his wife," laughed Henry. "It's when the wife returns the sentiment to the man in question the troublesome husbands grow heated and irritable, is it not?" The corners of his mouth lifted. "And I imagine there's little enough chance of poor, heartless Fanny doing anything of the sort – so why should I give up <em>my</em> pleasure?"</p><p>Mary's hand dropped away from the strings, slapping irritably against her the side of her leg. "You will exercise at least an ounce of discretion in his presence, though, won't you?<em> Really</em> – I wouldn't have you sour the entire family against us."</p><p>"Oh, sweet sister," he guffawed with dark merriment, "what do you take me for?"</p><p>"A rake," said she, sweetly. "When you're silly and do not <em>think</em>."</p><hr/><p>"<em>Fanny</em>," whispered Susan, stroking her sister's shaking back as she wept in the bed, her raw face turned to the attic wall, "don't cry so. You're hardly the first person in the world to think of hitting Tom Bertram – I'd put considerable money on it."</p><hr/><p>"Fanny actually <em>struck</em> you?" asked Mr. Yates, who was sprawled beside Tom atop the coverlet on the large bed, his bare feet on a decorative silk pillow. He spoke with considerable disbelief. "How hard?"</p><p>Tom, rolling over and lifting his arms above his head, feeling his joints <em>pop</em> as he eased back down and propped himself onto his elbow, murmured, "Mmm, yes, hard enough to make her point at any rate – quite the display."</p><p>Mr. Yates cleared his throat sympathetically and, yawning, put an arm under his head to support his neck, staring up at the canopy above them. "Rotten luck, old bean."</p><p>"You know, I didn't think..." mumbled Tom, blinking in the dim lighting. "I didn't think Fanny <em>could </em>ever bring herself slap anyone. If she'd stayed, instead of running off in a fit of girlish tears, I probably would have admitted to being somewhat impressed."</p><p>"Did it hurt?"</p><p>Tom snorted and, dropping down with a<em> plop</em>, fell back onto his back and folded his arms across his chest, head turned to look incredulously at Mr. Yates. "What do <em>you</em> think?"</p><p>"I think it hurt."</p><p>"<em>Only</em> because the nail of her little finger scratched me when she pulled back," he grumbled begrudgingly.</p><p>"So what are you going to do?"</p><p>"Attempt to win back her affections and respect through charm and flattery, I suppose." He didn't see what else he <em>could</em> do, given the circumstances.</p><p>That was, he <em>could</em> leave again – the racing season must be starting up again soon, and he was growing eager to see his horses in action – but then he'd be right back where he started. <em>Without Fanny</em>. So that plan wasn't any good.</p><p>And, until they fell asleep, some minutes later, they were silent.</p><p>In the morning, they woke to Baddeley pulling back the canopy and then the curtains on the window, filling the room with daylight which was cloud-filtered yet sharp.</p><p>The butler was looking down at the two fully-clothed – save only for their missing cravats – sleeping gentlemen with raised eyebrows. He enquired, in a grave, formal tone, as to if they would be wanting assistance in readying themselves for breakfast or if they'd prefer a tray brought up so they could continue their clandestine visit in private.</p><p>"Oh, <em>do</em> shut up," snapped Tom, glaring through puffy, bloodshot eyes which were opened only the slightest slit.</p><p>"Very good. As you like, sir."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Good Opinions, Not So Lost As Was First Feared</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Twenty-Five:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Good Opinions, Not So Lost As Was First Feared</em>
</p><p>At breakfast, Tom was painfully aware of just how little Fanny looked at him.</p><p>It was, in actuality, largely shame which stayed her eyes – she could not bear that she'd struck him, regardless of Susan's many gentle reassurances that, surely, given his behaviour, he'd been asking for it, and so surely it was all right, provided she did not do it <em>again</em> – but there was some anger – a lingering resentment over his complete and total desertion of her – in the avoidance of her gaze as well, and it was this anger Tom most keenly felt.</p><p>He was unused to Fanny being severe with him. Let alone cross.</p><p>The wife he had left behind was amiable and mousy and never quarrelled if it could be helped. The wife he returned to seemed – as his Aunt Norris might put it – far more prone to ill-tempers and sulkiness.</p><p>Though, of course, he could not forget how – to a degree – it was justified; he had been away too long, he had, however unwittingly, hurt her tender feelings and wholesome sensibilities.</p><p>Whatever nonsense Edmund had been telling her could not have helped his case, either.</p><p>It had not occurred to Tom, before his return, that Fanny's was a mind ready to be moulded; he'd supposed her character already as fixed as his own, set in its ways, albeit quiet and unassuming ones where <em>his</em> were anything<em> but</em>.</p><p>He ought to have, he now realised, taken into consideration Fanny being seven years his junior and having known no life outside of Portsmouth. He was uncertain if he ought to mourn the loss of the unfixed manner of girl he'd initially fallen in love with; he did not believe her entirely gone, though he could not assure himself his belief was anything other than wishful thinking, and it mattered very little in the end because if even the smallest bit of her were left, it was enough for him. He still wanted her – he wanted her good opinion, for her to like him – to <em>respect</em> him – again. Anything else they needed to mend their bruised hearts would surely follow if he could only bring her back around to admiration for his person. If she liked him a little less than she previously had, he could like her well enough for the both of them. But her <em>regard</em>... No, that much he did not suppose he could live without.</p><p>And there she sat, right across from him at the breakfast table, near enough he could reach over the butter dish and take her hand, yet she was cold and distant, and for all their current proximity, he might as well still be in Weymouth, so little good it was to him.</p><p>He almost wished she would strike him again; another slap would, after all, have been an acknowledgement of his presence.</p><p>It wasn't any use thinking of getting to her by means of Susan, either, given <em>she</em> was just as unfriendly this morning.</p><p>And Edmund?</p><p>As much as Tom longed to ask his younger brother exactly what he'd been telling Fanny in his absence, what nonsense he'd been teaching her, he was making a point of ignoring Edmund – the self-righteous prig, who could never understand what it was to be in dire straights, for <em>he</em> never stepped a toe out of line – as thoroughly as Fanny and Susan ignored<em> him</em>.</p><p>Mr. Yates did not speak much, for his own part, but not because he sensed the tension, or because of his conversation with Tom the night before – no, it was how gloomy and imposing Sir Thomas Bertram was, and how he did not know Tom's father very well, which held his tongue. That, and he was distracted by watching Julia and trying to make it seem as if he were<em> not</em> watching Julia whenever Sir Thomas or that beady-eyed Mrs. Norris glanced his way.</p><p>The meal concluded, thusly, with more noise from the plates being cleared than from those present at the table.</p><p>When Tom was not waylaid by his father, as he expected to be, and dragged off to some odious, monotonous task (it was almost as if Sir Thomas, too, was giving up and washing his hands of him – and it stung him to the core more than Fanny's hitting him ever could), he found himself free to wander the house, looking for some amusement.</p><p>To his surprise, he spied Fanny holding a riding crop and moving rather briskly towards the front doors, and – amazed – he followed. "<em>Fanny</em>!"</p><p>She turned, gulping hard and keeping her eyes fixed over his shoulder.</p><p>"Good God, you're not going out <em>riding</em>, are you?" He took in her fine riding habit – certainly as new as the crop she carried – gawking somewhat at the way it fitted her shape and flattered her bust and waist.</p><p>Her tone was even, almost sweet, but slightly defensive as well. "Miss Crawford does not wish to ride Maria's horse today – she is engaged in some other activity with Mrs. Grant this morning – and it does not look like rain."</p><p>Tom – narrowly – resisted the urge to laugh at Fanny's odd defensiveness. As if <em>he</em> would ever grudge her his sister's former mount! Or question her right to do as she liked best! The fact that she felt she must defend herself at all was a little disconcerting, given she was the future lady of this house and should not have to time her rides – if such she wanted – around the whims of <em>Miss Crawford</em>. What was <em>Miss Crawford</em> to Mansfield? She was not even Edmund's betrothed!</p><p>No, no – that was not what he meant by it at all.</p><p>"That is" – he bit back the laugh which still fought him stubbornly, breathing deeply – "I did not think you <em>liked</em> horses. I thought you afraid of them and unlikely to ever wish to ride. Did you not tell me as much?"</p><p>Fanny's cheeks coloured and she fiddled awkwardly with the end of her riding crop. "It was Edmund who taught me not to fear being on the horses – to venture a little–" And she choked off, unable to go on, as if just recalling who she was speaking to.</p><p>"I see," was Tom's only response – and perhaps he really did, a little.</p><p>It had not even remotely occurred to him Edmund might have done him some <em>good</em> in his education of Fanny – rather than strictly robbing him of his untrained little creepmouse and replacing her with a blonder, prettier version of himself – until that very moment. He himself had – wrongly, it would seem – assumed the best thing for Fanny and her fear of riding would be to let her be, to allow her to do as she best pleased, and yet the idea that she should love to ride after all, that he might have a horsewoman for a wife to ride about the park with him, to race him and take an interest beyond service level in one of his great passions, was more appealing now than ever. When it had seemed impossible, he had decided it was of no importance. Now that it had come to be, he could not imagine how he could have supposed such a thing – to have Fanny to ride with! Such bliss. He should have to swallow his pride and, when he could bear it, thank Edmund for this much. Although, certainly something still must be done about this Miss Crawford having first rights to the horses nonsense – to be sure something or other must be done.</p><p>"I must go," said Fanny. "Before Aunt Norris sees and–"</p><p>Why should Aunt Norris prevent his wife from riding? He did not comprehend this at all. "I'll come with you," he said at last. "I'd very much like to ride in such fine weather as well."</p><p>She gave him one distressed, wretched look, for the first time that morning really staring full into his face, before blinking back unshed tears and showing herself quite resigned.</p><p>Then he recalled he was not dressed for riding as she was and – glancing down at himself – hurriedly asked Fanny that she not, for mercy's sake, leave the stables without him; he would meet her there once he'd changed.</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>?" It was Mrs. Norris, her voice echoing as it came nearer. "Fanny, where <em>have</em> you sneaked off to?"</p><p>Tom noted, though he could not for the life of him make the least sense of, how Fanny tensed at their aunt's call. "I'll distract her," he offered, rather magnanimously. "She cannot nail <em>me</em> down this morning if I do not wish it – whereas I suppose <em>you</em> must be too good-natured to excuse yourself from whatever she asks." His eyes rolled towards the ceiling and his hands rested loosely at his hips. "No matter. If you suppose it will help your cause... You go on your own to the stables and wait for me, as we agreed."</p><p>They had not quite <em>agreed</em>, not in the traditional sense of the word, as he had simply decided himself it was what they would do, but Fanny – who had expected no protection from Aunt Norris whatever – was grateful for her husband's haphazard intervention and accepted this unlooked-for kindness with a wordless nod before fleeing the scene and rushing out into the sunshine of the day, making her way to the stables.</p><p>Another sort of girl – indeed, even Susan – might have – despite everything – taken Maria's horse and gone before Tom arrived. Fanny was not that sort of girl, however, and wholly unused to disobeying. It might tear her heart to shreds to see Tom – looking gallant and wonderful in his riding clothes – trotting along beside her on his own horse, to bear the honour of his company given freely when she knew he could no longer love her as he had before, yet she would not stir to save herself from such misery.</p><p>And they rode out, in good time, together, Fanny the most unhappy creature, despite being surrounded by so much beauty and pleasure, who ever graced the park's grounds.</p><p>"You ride well," Tom told her, bringing his horse so near to Maria's that his leg nearly brushed hers.</p><p>She forced a tight smile. "Thank you."</p><p>"Fanny" – his tone was softer, less merry – "can I ask you something?"</p><p>"Yes, by all means," she murmured demurely, giving a little nod and keeping her eyes facing ahead of her.</p><p>"Do you think, with rather a lot of patience, and – I reckon – a great deal of grovelling on my part" – he turned his head and gazed at her imploringly – "you might come to love me again?" It wasn't strictly <em>love</em> in the proper, romantic, idealistic sense he wanted – supposing it too great a hope – but it seemed passionless to deliberately ask for respect – besides, even Tom knew true esteem was not something which, if you had to <em>ask</em> for it, would likely never be really given, not genuinely – and untoward and crass to ask her to give herself to him physically, to warm his bed at night and allow him to touch her as he pleased, if she did not feel inclined of her own volition. Furthermore, you could not mention respect and grovelling within the same sentence and keep yourself coherent. <em>Love</em>, for all he actually<em> meant</em> by it, would have to do. There was a word missing, he thought, in their language, barred by the flimsy rules of proper English – something between lust and love, between regard and forgiveness. "What I'm asking is simply<em> this</em>. Can you give me reason to <em>hope</em>?"</p><p>Utterly stunned, Fanny pulled back on the reins, stopping Maria's horse. "<em>Love you again</em>?" She said the words as if they were of a foreign tongue, an insufferable portion from some dark magical spell wholly alien to her pure, upright being. "Can you really ask me such a thing?" She blinked at him. "I never <em>stopped</em>."</p><p>"Oh, don't play me for a fool, simply because I hardly know what to do with myself and display my position to you as vulnerable. It's bloody mean of you, regardless of what I may or may not have done to deserve it." And he pulled his own horse to a halt, perhaps a smidgen too roughly. The beast's head went up and down rapidly before settling, as if it were sneezing or had a bee flown up its nose. "From the moment I entered the house, there was obviously a cooling in your affections." His eyes flashed. "D'you deny it?"</p><p>"How can I deny it?" gasped out poor Fanny, quite bewildered. "But surely you're aware it was all for disappointment, at your recent actions, and at losing your affections. If you believed because I am small and sickly and was a poor relation before I ever was your wife, losing you could not affect me as it might another woman, you were mistaken."</p><p>Tom had to tighten his clenched legs to avoid falling from the saddle in shock. "Losing <em>my</em> affections! What the devil <em>are</em> you talking about?"</p><p>Fanny gnawed her lower lip. "What cause did you give me to suppose you...?" Her face was vivid with unadulterated pain. "You never wrote, in all the time you were away." She motioned, sadly, at his left hand. "And seeing you now, I shan't ever wish for another letter again so long as I live. A letter could only have told me that you... That your feelings for me..."</p><p>Tom's brow crinkled. "Why do you point to my hand?"</p><p>"You've removed your ring, Mr. Bertram," said she. "I have been quiet – I am <em>always </em>quiet – but I'm not blind. You come home after such a morally dubious commission as you showed me last night" – all those unclothed girls! – "telling me there was nobody else, but not that..." <em>Not that there was </em>me<em>.</em></p><p>"I <em>lost</em> it," Tom burst out, quite startling her with his exclamation. "And it's <em>Tom</em> – not <em>Mr. Bertram</em>, dash it, how many times <em>will </em>you get it wrong?"</p><p>"Y-you," she stammered; "you lost it on the shore at Weymouth?"</p><p><em>No secrets from her.</em> He sighed. "I lost it at cards – gambled it away. I was an idiot, as much – I'm coming to fear – for assuming I would have your instant forgiveness as for wagering with the damnable thing in the first place." He added, conscientiously, "I meant always to <em>replace</em> it, of course." He did, truly, somewhere in the back of his mind. Things just somehow got in the <em>way</em> – he hadn't yet the <em>time</em> to go searching for a new wedding band.</p><p>Fanny let the reins fall slack. She wept into her raised hands as they covered her face. They were not all tears of agitation, though she was still inwardly tormented over her husband's teetering morality; they were also full of relief.</p><p>Relief addressing a pain she had not thought there a balm in existence for.</p><p>Tom slipped down from his horse and held his hands to Fanny to help her out of the saddle as well. "Wife, if we both still love each other, if we've both been quite mistaken in thinking all hope lost, then I can't see how the rest <em>matters</em>. We mustn't expect perfection – that we care for one another is enough. It's more than most people after an ordeal like ours have, I shouldn't wonder."</p><p>In moments, Fanny was clasped in his arms, being drawn to him as he bent down to kiss her – repeatedly, ardently. His mouth pressed to hers as if it could not bear to be separated for long, pulling away for a breath so short it scarcely seemed worth the effort then coming back for more. He caressed her neck, her jawline; his fingers played intently with the stray golden curls that came out from under the matching burgundy hat she wore with her fine new riding habit, which – had it not been for the tempting curls spilling from it – he, being a man, would probably never have noticed the existence of.</p><p>"It's only you I <em>want</em>, Fanny Bertram." His forehead leaned against hers as he cupped her cheeks with his warm hands. "I never stopped, either. How could I?"</p><p>"Oh, tomcat," sobbed Fanny, kissing him in return, opening her mouth as his became more forcible from her unresisting encouragement. "It's not <em>fair</em>!"</p><p>"I <em>know</em>," he conceded, pulling away again and gazing down at her as if she were a little twinkling golden miracle he'd personally snatched from some better place for his own, though he hadn't the right to. "Rest assured, my dearest, my most unfortunately put upon little creepmouse, I <em>know</em> it's not."</p><hr/><p>It was a very different Tom and Fanny returning to the house than the pair which had left it earlier, albeit separately.</p><p>Tom stuck as close to his wife as a shadow, tugging playfully at her sleeves and bending over her in order to blow rather dramatically down the frilly collar of her riding habit.</p><p>The fact that Fanny was, for all her gravity, privately prone to fits of ticklishness did not, at this particular moment, help in her struggle to keep a straight face. She was bright scarlet from head to neck, and giggling madly already as they came through the doors, almost tripping over the threshold as they did so.</p><p>Tom whispered something which made her gasp, "<em>Mr. Bertram</em>!" and pretend to swat at him with her riding crop.</p><p>"Oh, so that's how it is, is it?" He grasped her waist and, lifting her off her feet, spun her about twice in rapid succession – then, rather than stopping at simply <em>that</em>, he wound up for a third time, for all her squealing and squirming.</p><p>"No,<em> no</em>," shrieked Fanny, still swinging the crop, slicing it through the air in pitiful defence, not actually landing a blow nor wanting to. "Put me down! Put me down! You must set me down at once!"</p><p>"Frances Harriet Pri–" Mrs. Norris – appearing before them seemingly out of nowhere at all and, evidently, in very poor humour – caught herself, but only just. "That is, <em>Bertram</em>." She spat out the amendment, as if she were choking on it. "Mrs. Bertram, will you please try to act with some decorum?"</p><p>Tom's dancing feet skidded to an abrupt stop. He placed Fanny down as gently as if she were a delicate newborn kitten. "Ah. Hello again, Aunt Norris. What tidings of the afternoon? Did we miss anything eventful?"</p><p>Fanny stumbled from one foot to the other, struggling to regain her balance; her hand was pressed to her forehead. "<em>Oh</em>."</p><p>"Careful, Fanny." Tom gripped her arm, steadying her, only for her to teeter in the opposite direction. "<em>Whoop</em>!"</p><p>Her knees buckled and Fanny sank to the cold marble floor, still giggling under her uneasy breath – which she struggled to catch.</p><p>"What is going on here?" demanded Mrs. Norris.</p><p>Tom arched an eyebrow, as if it say he thought it quite obvious. Perhaps the poor old thing was becoming confused, however. They did say that happened in the later years of life – Edmund had told him once about an old woman, a Mrs. Bates, whose unmarried spinster daughter had to practically<em> bellow</em> everything at her to be heard at all, making a parson's visits very awkward indeed. (He did not realise, of course, he'd quite recently <em>met</em> the granddaughter and niece of these very women.)</p><p>All right, then, if Aunt Norris desired an explanation, he'd give it his best.</p><p>Clearing his throat, Tom pointed at his wife. "Fanny fell down, madam."</p><p>Mrs. Norris stared at him uncomprehendingly.</p><p>Right. Perhaps he <em>could</em> make it a bit more simple, if such was truly required of him. "I..." He made a spinning motion with his index finger, demonstrating. "Then <em>she</em> proceeded to go, er, <em>boom</em>."</p><p>Fanny's shoulders shook – tears streamed down her face as she struggled not to look at Tom and make it worse. She couldn't recall the last time she'd laughed like this, the last time she'd been unable to stop herself.</p><p>"Don't be impertinent with me, young man," snapped Mrs. Norris, reaching up and straightening her lace cap. "Do you take me for an imbecile?"</p><p>His mouth fell open. "I take you for nothing of the sort, aunt."</p><p>"Good." She stepped nearer to Fanny, eyes narrowed. "Heaven preserve us! Has she been <em>drinking</em>?" And here poor, accused Fanny hadn't had a drop (though <em>Tom</em> was another matter entirely – there was currently, as it happened, a quarter-emptied silver flask concealed in his greatcoat breast pocket – but his aunt would never blame <em>him</em>, not when she could blame his wife instead). "Stop that obscene noise at once. Your behaviour is a discredit to this entire family, and it's very ungrateful of you. Very ungrateful indeed, considering what you owe to us all."</p><p>Shamed, she tried to oblige, lolling her head to the side; she tried to muffle the sound emanating from her, but it would not be muffled until it had run its course.</p><p>"Come, Fanny" – Tom had mercy on her, grasping her under the elbows and lifting her up – "I'll take you upstairs to change for tea."</p><p>"<em>Tom</em>," Mrs. Norris called after them, "before I forget, I must inform you that I have something to tell you at tea – a surprise."</p><hr/><p>Fanny collapsed into the velvet chair by the fireplace, blinking groggily into the unlit grate, still light-headed.</p><p>Kneeling beside the chair, Tom unlaced her riding boots then removed them. She gave a little sigh of satisfaction as he rubbed her ankles through the silken fabric of her stockings.</p><p>After about half a minute, one of Tom's hands began sliding upwards, over her calf, past her knee, pushing up and rumpling her skirt and under-things – it stopped at the garter holding the stockings in place at the thigh.</p><p>Fanny's eyes closed partway. She watched him from under her eyelashes. His overall countenance was intense, but the corners of his mouth were curled merrily. She felt him pluck at the garter and had something of an idea he was deliberately making work of it so he could keep his hand there longer. His pressing fingertips caressed her inner thigh and he pulled himself nearer so he could lean forward, against her and against the chair cushion.</p><p>He was close enough that if she bent over slightly she could kiss him. And she did, moaning softly and pressing one of her hands against his chest. Her other hand played at the knot in his cravat.</p><p>His hand slipped back down. Her petticoats tumbled untidily back into place.</p><p>Fanny pulled away, letting go of him. Her eyelashes fluttered in confusion. "You've stopped."</p><p>"I <em>haven't</em>," said Tom, bringing his other hand up, plucking at the remaining garter. "You've got<em> two</em> stockings – two legs – remember?"</p><p>"Tom" – her voice was shaky now – "I..."</p><p>"<em>God</em>," he moaned. "Fanny,<em> tell </em>me you want this to happen now as much as I do."</p><p>"Yes." Even after everything, Fanny found she could hardly refuse him, could hardly bear to make him unhappy – besides, it was the truth, or very near. If she did not want him <em>quite</em> so desperately in that moment as he wanted her, if her decidedly more passive desire was not <em>so</em> quickly raked up into a burning passion as all that, the fact remained she was nonetheless stirred, nonetheless flattered.</p><p>And she had missed him.</p><p>Yes, she had missed him very, very much.</p><p>"Yes?" He was <em>beaming</em>. "You don't mind missing our tea with the others, then?"</p><p>Her chest rose and fell shakily as she bent over further, ignoring her sore abdomen, and pressed her mouth to his ear. "I'll race you to the bed."</p><p>The truth was, she did not feel very much like racing – she was already winded, the emotional intensity of the day coupled with the riding and spinning earlier having somewhat depleted her less than bountiful energy as it was – but she rather suspected Tom, impulsive and gladdened by her willingness, might be inclined to take her right there on the chair, if he did not pull her down beside the fireplace with some vague intention of pleasuring her on the floor.</p><p>He'd told her once before to remember he was only a man, to have <em>some</em> mercy on him, and she'd never forgotten it.</p><p>The large canopied bed, she suspected, would be a great deal more practical and comfortable for them both. It had served them well enough the last time, though that felt like forever ago.</p><p>Grinning, Tom kissed her cheek, then took off running.</p><p>She pulled herself unsteadily to her feet, breathing heavily, the stocking only partially removed from her other leg making her foot spark as she dragged it across the carpet.</p><p>Grasping her by the arms as soon as she arrived within his reach, Tom swung her onto the bed and rolled on top of her. "I won."</p><p>Fanny turned her head away, sighing. "Yes...you did..." she panted, meek and sweet and matter-of-fact, getting the words out between long, dragging breaths. "I let you."</p><hr/><p>The sitting room doors opened with a slight <em>bang</em>, followed by the shrill cry of Mrs. Norris admonishing what sounded to be grumbling workmen of some sort to have a care for the walls or else she'd report them to Sir Thomas.</p><p>
  <em>"Aye, very good, madam – where do you want this?"</em>
</p><p>"What the<em> hell</em>?" Tom – half-clothed at best – bolted upright and, flinging the canopy aside, jumped out of bed and threw on his dressing-gown.</p><p>"Tom?" called his aunt, scanning the somewhat untidy room with increasingly narrowed eyes. "<em>Tom</em>?"</p><p>Tom stepped from his bedroom to the sitting room just in time to see the workmen carrying a tall long-case clock with an unnerving engraving of a very beaky-looking hawk carved around the top.</p><p>"What's all this, then?" He tied his dressing-gown more securely and folded his arms across his chest.</p><p>"If you had come down for tea," said Mrs. Norris, rather pertly, "you would know that I purchased a new sitting room clock, as a gift for your homecoming."</p><p>"I don't <em>need</em> a clock," said Tom, incredulous. "There's already one on the mantelpiece. The ticking of one clock is soothing – nobody even notices that – <em>two</em>, no doubt slightly out of rhythm with each other, is madness inducing."</p><p>"My dear boy, what <em>are</em> you doing in your dressing-gown in the middle of the day?" asked Mrs. Norris, as if she'd heard nothing he'd just said. Very probably, she hadn't – Mrs. Norris had a most remarkable talent for hearing and seeing only what she wished to.</p><p>"Being that it's well after tea, it's <em>hardly</em> the middle of the–" He stopped to snap his fingers at the two men who'd begun to set the clock to rights against the wall across from the door. "Oi, there's no need for that. If you'd be so good, take the blasted thing back where it–"</p><p>One of the workmen sniffed and, once he'd shifted the clock upright and gotten its weight off himself, wiped his rather grimy nose on his sleeve. "Eh? What's that, sir?"</p><p>Tom cursed under his breath.</p><p>That was when Mrs. Norris noticed the silk stocking on the floor in front of the chair by the fireplace. She would have been pleased to see the grate unlit, for economic reasons, if only Fanny alone had been in residence and if the day hadn't been unseasonably warm, but she derived no pleasure from it as things stood.</p><p>"Why does your wife leave her garments tossed about this way?" she demanded, picking it up and placing it on the clingy velvet arm of the chair. "That's no manner in which to treat an expensive gift for which your very generous father footed the bill, you know – a talk ought to be had with Fanny about it. It's <em>most</em> disagreeable, her flippant behaviour towards such valuables! Where <em>is</em> that girl?"</p><p>"In <em>bed</em>, aunt," said Tom, pointedly.</p><p>"At <em>this</em> hour?" She sounded scandalised, rather than comprehending as he'd wished. "Whatever is she thinking of? Is she ill?"</p><p>"<em>Yes</em>," Tom lied, waving at the workmen. "Gravely. And I'm going back to see to her, so if you wouldn't all mind, <em>get out</em>."</p><p>"Stuff and <em>nonsense</em>," huffed Mrs. Norris, mouth puckering in distaste. "She was perfectly fine earlier, laughing like an inebriated madwoman and flinging herself to the floor – it was all that unbecoming spinning and hysteria which did the mischief, if you ask me."</p><p>We <em>didn't</em>, thought Tom, quite irritated by this point.</p><p>"She ought to be dragged up and made to attend and sit quietly for a few minutes – she'd be well at once, and none of this sorry trick of lounging in bed."</p><p>Tom took his aunt's arm and began to lead her to the door. "You know what, Aunt Norris? You're right – I'll tell her as much myself, soon as you leave."</p><p>"<em>Leave</em>?" echoed Mrs. Norris, aghast. "I cannot leave – there are workmen here."</p><p>"Take them with you," said Tom.</p><p>"And what's more, Mrs. Grant and Mr. Crawford are coming over to dine with us this evening – Miss Crawford won't be able to make it, as somebody had to stay with Dr. Grant, who had a nervous upset, and Mrs. Grant hasn't had the chance to dine out in near to a month."</p><p>"Fascinating," said Tom, as if it were anything but.</p><p>In Tom's opinion, Dr. Grant ranked extremely low in importance in any conversation, given his private belief the man was quite the apoplectic manner of disagreeable fellow and would give himself a heart-attack one of these days and simply pop off, and they'd have wasted valuable time discussing him. It had happened with Uncle Norris as well, though he'd been slightly less prone to fits of rage – one, it seemed, learned to hold it in and repress negative emotion when you were married to such a wife as he'd had. Aunt Norris hadn't stood for that sort of thing, and such was not entirely to her discredit.</p><p>At any rate, it was one of the consoling thoughts Tom allowed himself regarding what he'd taken of Edmund's living with his gambling – it wasn't as if the man who'd gotten it was going to live very<em> long</em>.</p><p>"Don't you think Miss Crawford a most agreeable, giving woman, Tom?" sighed Mrs. Norris. "Always thinking of others before herself."</p><p>"<em>Hmm</em>," said Tom, his tone noncommittal, though that certainly wasn't how he would have described Mary – he recognised a thoroughly selfish person when he was acquainted with them, as they do say it takes one to know one.</p><p>"Would that Fanny could learn from her manners – well, at least they are much in each other's company now, some good may yet come of it."</p><p>"As you like." Tom tried taking her arm again, but was brushed off, his wrist slapped away.</p><p>"You need to be downstairs, the both of you – dressed and ready to greet the company – we're receiving them in five and twenty minutes in the drawing-room and I would have you already there and waiting well before they arrive."</p><p>And supper wasn't for a while yet, which meant <em>pleasant conversation</em>. Tom winced at the thought, his stomach turning. Henry Crawford was an all right sort of gentleman, really, agreeable and decent, and as Mr. Yates would no doubt be there, too, unless his father and Aunt Norris found some way of excluding him, they should get on quite well, the three of them, perhaps even playing at cards after supper. But, as of the moment, anything which prevented him from returning to his cosy bed and wife was a most unbearable evil. What cared he for Mr. Crawford or supper or the rest of the party downstairs, when he could, instead, enjoy the company of a beautiful, currently unclothed woman?</p><p>"Give us <em>five minutes</em>," Tom pleaded, near whimpering – he was much too wound up. "I'm begging you."</p><p>"I expect you both in less than that – I won't have the guests feel slighted."</p><p>"<em>Ugggggggggghhhh</em>," Tom groaned, throwing up his hands. "Damn the guests!"</p><p>"<em>Thomas Bertram</em>! You <em>shall</em> learn to mind your tongue – you're not too big yet for me to take a switch to, young man."</p><p>Aunt Norris had never actually taken a switch to Tom in his life, but it did not help matters that both workmen had stopped fussing over the creepy clock and halted in a half-murmured argument they'd been having (they could not agree, it seemed, on how to wind it) in the background to stare at him at his aunt's exclamation, looking – the pair of them – quite convinced she was in earnest, and rather more eager than not to see the threat enacted.</p><p>He sighed dramatically. "We'll be down directly – straight-faced and miserable as you clearly desire us to be – just leave us to dress."</p><hr/><p>Although she could not hear all which was said, Mrs. Norris' voice had a natural way of carrying disagreeably and Fanny, from where she sat on the bed under the canopy, heard enough that, when Tom reappeared looking sullen, she had a general idea of what had taken place.</p><p>"Family are much more disagreeable than horses, you know," he muttered. "They go where you ask, pack themselves up in their stables when they're not needed, and all they want for it is a carrot."</p><p>Fanny smiled. "Perhaps we should try giving Aunt Norris a carrot." She had heard, if little enough else, quite clearly, the remark about Mary Crawford and felt its sting, which made her slightly barbed in temper, despite her angelic smile. "She might leave us alone sometimes."</p><p>Tom chuckled darkly. "God have mercy on me! Supper, <em>just now</em>, when I least feel like it, when we've only just made up, with <em>Mr. Crawford</em>" – Fanny winced, but he did not notice, or else he thought it was in sympathy to himself, wholly unaware of the attentions Henry often gave Fanny which made her feel such keen discomfort – "why could my aunt not deliver me into the hands of bandits and have it over with? <em>Death</em> would be quick. Whereas, <em>supper</em>, my pretty little mouse" – and he reached over and patted her cheek, brushing away a stray curl – "is slow and agonising. Upon my word, this whole family is trying to crush the very life out of me!"</p><p>"<em>Tom</em>," she sighed, not without affection. "Don't you think you're being a little dramatic? It is only supper, and we have to eat <em>sometime</em>."</p><p>"What, <em>me</em>?" exclaimed Tom, dragging open the canopy. "Dramatic? Never." He placed a clean shirt and waistcoat – a watch-chain still attacked to the pocket – on the bed with jangling <em>plop</em>. "Come on, get up, we've quite missed our chance – get up, dress in haste, before Aunt Norris drags us down by the ears, kicking and screaming – <em>love</em>, I'm afraid, is dead for the time being."</p><hr/><p>Henry Crawford was astonished by the change he witnessed in Fanny that evening.</p><p>Could this be the same timid, cold little thing he had been trying – largely in vain – to get to warm to him all these weeks? Her cheeks, rather than pallid with illness, were almost rosy – certainly they were <em>flushed</em>, but it did not seem to be a fever's flush.</p><p>Before supper, as they all sat in the drawing-room together, while Henry politely pretended to listen to everyone discuss what a dreadful pity it was Mary had been unable to join them and how they wished Dr. Grant the speediest of recoveries from whatever ailment he currently wrestled with (he resisted the urge to tell them if it proved fatal, it would be the first time in history a man ever died of not having a goose – or was it a pheasant? – at his table when he desired it, dressed to his exact specification), he silently observed Fanny's altered manner.</p><p>Mrs. Bertram had eyes for no one apart from her newly returned husband and was constantly alight with a distinct happiness of countenance whenever he sat beside her or glanced at her or made some comment in her direction – <em>this</em>, remarkably, despite the fact that Tom seemed to be most out of humour.</p><p>How one could be out of sorts with a beauty smiling at you, Henry couldn't fathom.</p><p>He certainly doesn't <em>deserve</em> her, he thought, but such is the case with most rich husbands who marry very pretty women.</p><p>There was one moment of shared affection when both husband and wife smiled simultaneously; their hands – concealed by the porcelain mustard pot of a tea set Susan Price had just put out for Lady Bertram, when the maid-servant failed to do so to her liking – linked together by their hooked little fingers.</p><p>Tom's left eye twitched in a near-wink.</p><p>"I <em>am</em> glad Susan is here to set things to rights whenever the poor servants are confused as to my wishes." Lady Bertram patted Susan's hand. "She always knows what I want before I have to utter a word. Dearest, dearest Susie – I shall never be able to do without her again. Isn't Susan the dearest child who ever lived?"</p><p>Julia looked a bit wounded, and Mrs. Norris was heated on her behalf, but it didn't matter too greatly at that moment what either of them had to say, for the question had been directed at <em>Henry</em>.</p><p>"Indeed," said he, perhaps too sweetly, "Susan Price is a good little girl. The most agreeable little girl who ever was at Mansfield."</p><p>The manner in which he said 'little girl' offended Julia, who switched sides and immediately removed herself to sit next to Susan and seemed determined to show her cousin every civility simply to spite him.</p><p>Henry was not concerned with<em> her</em>. He'd seen, from the corner of his eye, when he could just spare it from being entirely fixed on Mrs. Bertram, the way Mr. Yates doted on the poor misfit Bertram sister. Truly, he expected to hear of an engagement between the awkward pair any day. Yates had only the fact that he was an Honourable to his credit, and Julia had only the distinction of being the daughter of a baronet – and the somewhat favoured sister of a future baronet, of course – to booster her appeal; were they not <em>made</em> for one another?</p><p>Even now, the duped, enraptured Mr. Yates was watching Julia attend to Susan with an open, doting expression that clearly said he thought her the most generous and lovely of women.</p><p>As for Fanny...</p><p>Good heavens!</p><p>Could Henry ever have really thought her incapable of feeling?</p><p>See how she attended to her Mr. Bertram, now he was with her once again! Such attentions, such admiration... It would be <em>something</em>, if he was not mistaken, to be a man fortunate enough to have love like that given from such a girl. To be loved by Fanny Bertram was not an impossibility, but a glory – one beyond compare – to be basked in!</p><p>How could he ever have supposed her heartless? How? Such a woman as she! He'd had her wrong from the start, lovely, heavenly creature she now proved herself.</p><p>At the start of supper, once the tea had been drank and Sir Thomas himself arrived fresh from his study to join them, there was some fuss over seating. Tom wanted to sit beside Fanny (Henry could not blame him, could not fault him for having such a desire) while Mrs. Norris, in turn, argued it ruined the whole sitting arrangement and threw the entire table off-balance for the party, and didn't he know he couldn't sit<em> next to his wife</em>.</p><p>"You don't see your father sitting next to your mother, do you?" sighed Mrs. Norris.</p><p>"Sir Thomas does not <em>like</em> to be seated on my left," murmured Lady Bertram to her empty plate. "I have a terrible twitch in that arm and can strike him with my elbow if I don't mind myself. It is especially bad when it rains, you know."</p><p>"Such fuss over nothing at all." Mrs. Norris pointed to the chair <em>across</em> from Fanny. "Sit <em>there</em>, for pity's sake, and do try to stop being quarrelsome with an aunt who loves you better than anyone. You've been out of sorts with me all day."</p><p>It was Henry, by no design of anyone in particular, who ended up being seated beside Fanny, but – though her shoulders tensed as he pulled out the chair – she mostly failed to notice, keeping her gaze across the table at Tom.</p><p>Tom ate the first two courses of the meal with record speed, then announced, quite suddenly, he needed to be instantly excused because the light from outside was near-gone and he'd only just remembered he'd promised to show Fanny something in the stables. "We were in such a great hurry to go riding this morning, it completely slipped my mind."</p><p>"Yes," said Fanny, who had hardly touched her food beyond moving it from one side of the plate to the other with her silverware. "That is, he did say..." Her voice quavered. Lying with ease was not among her natural gifts, clearly. "<em>Yes</em>. And I daresay I cannot be so ungrateful to all my husband, and his family" – her eyes flittered over to Mrs. Norris for a fraction of a second – "have done for me to not do as he asks."</p><p>Sir Thomas was confused. "The light isn't <em>near-gone</em>, Tom – it's <em>all</em> gone. It's not late enough in the year for the sun to remain out at this hour."</p><p>"I'll take a <em>lantern</em>," blurted Tom.</p><p>"Surely it can wait until tomorrow," protested his father, uncertainly. "Whatever it is?"</p><p>Strangely, it was Tom's mother who seemed, for all that she was usually groggy and inattentive, to grasp an ulterior motive might be in place here. "No," said Lady Bertram, slowly, her eyes drifting from Fanny to Tom in an unusually clear-sighted manner. "I <em>think</em>, Sir Thomas, it cannot wait until tomorrow."</p><p>"<em>Thank you</em>, Mother! I shan't forget your generosity." Tom was cheerful; his morose manner from the drawing-room was quite gone now. "Come, Fanny. The sooner we go, the sooner we'll..." He paused. "Er, be gone."</p><p>"He'll burn down the stables!" protested Mrs. Norris, unheeded. "Not to mention the expense of using the lantern when there's still..." She clenched her teeth together. "Nobody minds what I have to say, even when it's of great use to them." She shook out her napkin emphatically. "I leave it to this party's conscience, that is all I'm saying on the matter. Goodness knows I never interfere with what is not my own concern, but it is the responsibility of an elder to speak out against the folly of young persons now and again."</p><hr/><p>"It's <em>empty</em>," said Fanny, looking about the stall Tom had led her to, seeing nothing but fresh hay and a halter hanging from a hook on the back of the door.</p><p>"So it is." He scratched the back of his head. "It would seem I completely forgot the groom has the horse out for a night ride."</p><p>"The groom <em>you </em>pay?" teased Fanny.</p><p>"<em>Could</em> be that groom," he said with forced airiness. "Could be one of my father's. Who can say one way or the other?" He knelt to set the lantern down beside a straw pile and, as he stood back up, he wrapped his arms around Fanny's waist, pulling her close. "But, I think, wife, you're missing the important thing."</p><p>"Mmm? And what's that?"</p><p>"We're completely alone and not expected back with the supper company for several minutes."</p><p>"You cannot be in earnest?" she laughed.</p><p>"I most certainly <em>can be</em>."</p><p>"We're in the <em>stables</em>."</p><p>"Yes, we are."</p><p>"It smells of horse."</p><p>"Yes, it does, rather, now that you bring it to mind, though that is generally what stables smell of."</p><p>"If you could have borne waiting until <em>after</em> supper and cards, we'd be in a <em>bed</em>."</p><p>"Yes, you're not<em> wrong</em>, I grant you, Fanny, but all the<em> same</em>..."</p><hr/><p>When Mr. and Mrs. Bertram returned to the house, slinking into the drawing-room where three different games of cards were currently in progress and slumping down on sofa side by side, they gave an air of being rather winded. Tom's hair was rumpled and Fanny's was askew with two plaits loosened. They were both slightly glassy-eyed with evident exhaustion.</p><p>"Did you run back here all the way from the stables?" asked Julia, in a tone of scandalised astonishment, looking up from her hand to stare at them in surprise.</p><p>"Right," said Tom, yawning indolently as he stretched an arm over the back of the sofa. "That's it. <em>Running</em>, what."</p><p>Edmund, rolling his eyes at his brother's painfully obvious indiscretion, set down his wineglass and – coming to stand by the side of the sofa where Fanny lolled – whispered, "You've got a bit of straw in your hair, cousin." He quietly removed it, once Julia had shrugged and returned to her current occupation, blithely accusing Mr. Yates of cheating so as to throw the game in her favour, and was no longer watching her brother and sister-in-law.</p><hr/><p>The long-case clock Mrs. Norris had gifted Tom chimed – every bit as unrhythmically and madness-inducing as he'd predicted, he proved quite the Nostradamus in this particular scenario – loudly, rumbling the floorboards all the way from his sitting room into the bedroom.</p><p>Luckily, the mattress was thick and it was little felt by the contented couple.</p><p>In actuality, Fanny felt the ensuing rumble a bit more strongly than Tom, as she was more naturally of the sort who can feel a pea through a mattress while her husband would scarcely have felt a <em>carriage wheel</em> put in the same place under most circumstances. It was probably his privately held resentment towards the clock arriving, it's ghastly timing, which – coupled with the fact that it was in poor taste, rather leaning towards the downright ugly and offending his artistic preference for beauty – made him more keen to feel, despite himself, and be made cross by it.</p><p>"What if," mumbled Tom, gone pensive, "I chopped it into firewood and made it look like an accident?"</p><p>Fanny lifted her head from his chest and shook it tenderly. "She'd know."</p><p>He ran his thumb lovingly along the crease of her furrowed brow. "You're probably right." With a low groan, he drew his knees up and Fanny, hands folded, rested her chin on one of his kneecaps, still looking at him. "What <em>is</em> it, Fanny?"</p><p>"I don't know how to ask..."</p><p>"We have no secrets," Tom reminded her. "You may ask me anything you like."</p><p>"Your portrait," she whispered, cheeks colouring. "The one you were..."</p><p>"Mmm," he grunted, uncertainly, wondering if he were about to be scolded.</p><p>"Were you... When you finished..." She halted, swallowed, then began again. "Were you pleased with the end result?"</p><p>"My commissioner cared a great deal for it, or he would not have paid me or parted with me, I think."</p><p>"But did <em>you</em> like it?" insisted Fanny, with a boldness she did not entirely feel.</p><p>It did not occur to him to lie. "I did, actually – it was some of my best work."</p><p>"I <em>am</em> proud of your talents, you know," Fanny told him. "Even if I don't approve of what you used them for. I-I'm proud of <em>you</em>."</p><p>Tom felt a rush of warmth run through his entire body. "Thank you." She never would know, he expected, how much her saying that really meant to him.</p><p>"Did you sign it?"</p><p>"I beg your pardon?"</p><p>"The portrait."</p><p>"Oh. Still that? Yes." There was a hint of pride in his voice. "Yes, I did. But you needn't worry, no one in our social circles will ever see it" – <em>or</em>, that is, he thought to himself,<em> admit to seeing it</em> – "as it hangs in a house of ill-repute."</p><p>"I wish I– That is, I should like–" She stopped, unable to go on – because she was not <em>certain</em>. She could not wish, nor like, to see the end result of his efforts when the preliminary sketches alone had distressed her so, when the thought of them still pricked at her soul if she dwelt too long on the memory, and yet...</p><p>And yet...</p><p>She hoped Tom understood her meaning, even so.</p><p>And perhaps he did, a little.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Gifts, As They May Be Accepted</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Twenty-Six:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Gifts, As They May Be Accepted</em>
</p><p>"Sir Thomas, tell him he <em>can't</em>!" cried Mrs. Norris, bursting into Sir Thomas' study despite years of having drilled into his children's heads that they must never, ever – under <em>any</em> circumstances, save, <em>perhaps</em>, those which involved quarts of blood or else some other means of imminent death – dream of doing such a thing as interrupting their illustrious father in the middle of his work. "Indeed, you <em>must</em>–" Her knuckles went white as they curled around the side of the door-frame. "You must tell him he cannot do such a thing as this."</p><p>Looking up and blinking confusedly from the parchment spread across his desk, Sir Thomas said, in plain astonishment, "Compose yourself, my dear Mrs. Norris. Pray stop and catch your breath. Whatever is the matter? Who's done what? <em>Why</em> must I stop it? What's <em>happened</em>?"</p><p>"Your son–" she gasped out.</p><p>Sir Thomas closed his eyes and sighed. "What's Tom done now?" He knew at once it could be nothing about <em>Edmund</em> – no one ever complained about the younger of his two boys, for he did little to raise anybody's ire. Tom on the other hand always rubbed somebody in the household the wrong way, and their fury was seldom without just cause.</p><p>As if called thither by some dark magic, then, Tom and none other than Henry Crawford appeared behind Mrs. Norris in the still-open doorway of the study.</p><p>She whirled on them. "Ask him for yourself, Sir Thomas! The <em>folly</em>–"</p><p>Sir Thomas held up a hand, silencing her. "Tom, what have you done to upset your aunt?"</p><p>"Why, nothing at all that I know of, sir!" exclaimed Tom, removing his top hat and shaking his head. "I was simply making a business arrangement with Mr. Crawford here" – he motioned with the hat at Henry – "and, to my great surprise and utter amazement, my dear aunt took wild offence."</p><p>Mrs. Norris made a strangled noise of indignation. "How could I otherwise – do you know what he was <em>doing</em>, Sir Thomas?"</p><p>"Indeed, I've not yet ascertained as much from the current witnesses of this great disaster which have flocked into my study uninvited, but I'm all ears," said Sir Thomas, dryly.</p><p>"He was attempting to sell <em>our dear Maria's horse</em>!" Mrs. Bertram clasped her hands together in horror. "<em>Sell </em>it – to Mr. Crawford!"</p><p>One eyebrow arched, Sir Thomas looked to his son. "Is this true?"</p><p>"Indeed, sir."</p><p>"You see? He <em>confesses </em>it!" cried Mrs. Norris, looking at Tom with the expression of one who has been most cruelly betrayed.</p><p>"I thought myself well within my rights," Tom pressed. "Most of the dealings to do with horses on this estate go through me. And, providing I don't sell your personal mount, you've never questioned my management of them before."</p><p>"Would that you were as diligent in your other duties as you are with those animals, Tom," sighed his father. "But why is it – I admit I'm truly puzzled – you wished to sell your sister's horse?"</p><p>"I thought it simply the most useful thing to do," Tom explained, ignoring Mrs. Norris' huff of disgust at this remark. "Mr. Crawford's sister has grown fond of riding lately, and – as I'm told – likes Maria's horse, finds it more agreeable than any other. He wishes to surprise his sister with a generous gift, and the beast would – given the Crawfords' proximity to us – remain in our stables, simply at Mr. Crawford's expense."</p><p>Sir Thomas turned to Henry. "You've been very quiet through all this, Mr. Crawford – is what my son tells me true?"</p><p>"Yes, sir." Henry had doffed his own hat and he smiled at Sir Thomas respectfully. "I mentioned only this morning I wished to buy a horse for Mary, who has taken such pleasure in riding with your younger son as of late, but lamented I had nowhere to put such creature once purchased, and Mr. Bertram was good enough to suggest this plan."</p><p>"What I fail to understand," said Sir Thomas, "is why you, Tom, would wish to sell your sister's horse simply to oblige the Crawfords."</p><p>"It was not purely from the goodness of my heart, Father," Tom began.</p><p>"I should say not!" snapped Mrs. Norris.</p><p>"I wanted to sell the horse and move it into a smaller stall, once Mr. Crawford had paid me for it, and to – in turn – give the primary place for such a grand lady's horse to <em>Fanny</em> – I mean to purchase a horse for her, a superior creature suitable for the future Mistress of Mansfield, one she would not be asked to share or wait for turns with, one that frankly might give her more to work with as she keeps at it, a proper challenge to make the riding worthwhile – in truth, I have <em>just</em> the horse I think she should best like in mind already, very nearly secured – and I thought this scheme a good one on all fronts."</p><p>At that, Sir Thomas' countenance lightened considerably. "A horse for Fanny, you say? Well, well. I can see nothing against that. Your wife ought to have her own horse, should she truly want one. If she'd spoken sooner, hinted such a desire within my hearing I might have obliged the poor girl myself in your absence – goodness knows she should take more exercise that will not fatigue her."</p><p>Mrs. Norris was nearly apoplectic. "Sir Thomas, surely you cannot <em>approve</em> Tom brazenly selling <em>Maria's</em> horse for <em>Fanny's</em> sake! Surely not! I'm certain I have misunderstood you entirely. Is Maria's happiness be sacrificed for the sake of Fanny's whims and pleasures?"</p><p>"My dear madam," said he, "nothing of the sort is happening! Maria's happiness is not in question. She no longer lives under this roof, and she's never mentioned wanting her horse in any of her letters – I can only conclude my daughter has no use for such a nicety as a lady's riding-horse in London."</p><p>"But should she return to us for a visit and wish to ride!"</p><p>"Then, I suppose, she would ask the Crawfords – or if they are away, Mrs. Grant in their stead – if she can have a turn on their horse and I'm certainly they should not grudge it to her by any means."</p><p>"Indeed not," agreed Mr. Crawford. "Mrs. Rushworth is welcome to ride my sister's horse whenever she pleases."</p><p>"It is not your sister's horse <em>yet</em>, Mr. Crawford," Mrs. Norris coldly informed him. "If you <em>please</em>."</p><p>"Indeed, you must forgive me, madam, I spoke in haste."</p><p>"I think," insisted Mrs. Norris, "it is for the best if things here do not change so drastically."</p><p>"In most cases, I should readily agree with you, Mrs. Norris," said Sir Thomas. "But alas, as much as a great deal of his recent behaviour has shocked and saddened me, Tom is correct in this matter. Fanny is the wife of a future baronet, and it would seem mean and shabby of us all if she were not permitted her own horse."</p><p>"But she does not <em>need</em> a horse of her own! Not when she can easily ride Maria's horse anytime it is not wanted!"</p><p>"And Miss Crawford," Tom pointed out, "always wants it on fine days."</p><p>"Nonsense! I know for a fact Fanny went out riding with you the other day – when you both came home in a very loose and wild state, her screaming like a madwoman, indeed I still suspect liquor was involved – and it was fine weather from morning till night."</p><p>"Yes, but <em>hang it all</em>, aunt, you must see that was the exception rather than the rule."</p><p>"I think it shall all be settled, for now, as Tom has decided." Sir Thomas nodded. "I am very sorry if it grieves you, Mrs. Norris, and will do anything in my power to make you more comfortable about the place, but as my son has already given his word to Mr. Crawford, and has respectfully explained his reasons for doing this to my satisfaction, I cannot begrudge him this."</p><p>Mrs. Norris nodded, she could hardly do otherwise, but the hard fury did not leave her eyes and was not helped by the look of satisfaction lighting on Tom's face. "Thank you, Father."</p><p>It did not occur to his aunt that he was pleased to have his father on his side for once, or to be doing something for his wife – she took his jubilant expression as a slight against herself.</p><p>She held a private, entirely unreasonable, belief that Fanny was – in secluded moments – rather set on turning Tom against her, against his most beloved aunt who had always done the best for him. This served to clinch that belief in her mind. Fanny had <em>schemed</em> to have her own horse, to upset Maria's place here – the place Maria should always have here at Mansfield Park, regardless of what her surname currently was – and put <em>herself </em>forward.</p><p>She never forgave Fanny for it.</p><hr/><p>Fanny was perched in the window-seat of the library with a large, gold-lettered, elaborately illustrated book – which she'd taken down from one of the many shelves before seating herself – open on her lap, looking out at the expanse of green lawn and Mansfield Wood beyond.</p><p>The curtain which separated the window-seat from the rest of the library was only half-closed, and was being pulled aside by a familiar hand. "What are we reading today, creepmouse?"</p><p>Her eyes flickered up to her grinning husband and she smiled back, showing him the book.</p><p>Tom eased down beside her, reaching out lightly and taking the book from her hands, setting it on the cushion behind himself. Then he slipped an arm around her waist and scooted nearer, pressing his mouth against her throat and kissing her repeatedly.</p><p>His other hand began to stroke the front of her bodice, teasingly tracing the line of her bust, and she pulled away for a moment, a little breathlessly. "<em>Tom</em>" – her widened eyes darted to the window they were all but pressed against – "someone might look up and see us."</p><p>In truth, Tom did not much care too much who saw what, given neither of them were doing anything <em>wrong – </em>and it wasn't as if guests normally approached the house from this direction, anyway, so it would only be <em>the staff</em>, if one took his meaning, which Fanny was never entirely sure she did – yet he assured her, rather sweetly, no one had business on that part of the property right then.</p><p>As it happened, however, a number of servants were actually quite well aware Tom and Fanny, their future employers, could be seen, by any quick and curious eyes, locked in a passionate embrace, kissing each other – and sometimes, once or twice, rather a bit more than simply that – from the library window about this hour. It was around this time of day Tom tended to slip away from his duties, often right under the noses of those who were supposed to make sure he stuck around, and find his wife – in the state nearest to unoccupied she was ever to be found in – and he was – it would seem – simply delighted every single time to discover her thusly.</p><p>The servants were typically loath to say anything within their hearing – even Baddeley was reasonably silent on the subject – given they <em>were</em> the future master and mistress of this place, after all, but they all thought they should be very greatly surprised if there was not another little Bertram toddling about the place well before Tom was set to properly inherit any of it. Some of the maid-servants who had originally sneered at Fanny's clothes when she first came were not always the picture of kindness itself when discussing the obviously passionate nature of relationship between her and their future master, but they were too low in the household to do them any real harm. And one did wonder if they would – especially seeing Fanny better dressed and respecting her a little more for it – have been kinder if a couple of them did not harbour a fancy for Mr. Crawford, even if they knew he could not seriously consider their class of person, and weren't jealous of the constant civility and attention he showed Mrs. Bertram. The younger maid-servants were all too used to Tom, had grown up in too near proximity to their future master, to ever resent Fanny for getting<em> him</em> – if anything they wished her luck, thinking she'd surely need it – but Henry Crawford, despite not being particularly handsome, was a whole other matter in their eyes.</p><p>But the world below stairs is foreign enough – even to Fanny, who was much more sensitive to its whispers than Tom, given her more humble circumstances in upbringing – that a young rich couple in love cannot have concern enough to think <em>too</em> long on its probable gossip.</p><p>Reassured no one was currently observing them, Fanny busied her fingers unbuttoning Tom's waistcoat while his kisses moved up from her throat to her chin, to one corner of her mouth, to her lips. His hand thoughtlessly gave the amber cross at her neck a little tug while he kissed her, pulling harder than he meant to, and he withdrew apologetically when the necklace unexpectedly snapped and pendant and chain together came off and landed in her lap with a<em> clink</em>.</p><p>"Oh! That's a shame. I <em>am</em> sorry Fanny," he whispered. "I didn't mean to do it."</p><p>Fanny had to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out in relief. And to keep herself from smiling too broadly. The chain she'd been wearing, the one Tom had just accidentally broken the clasp of, hadn't been her preferred chain. Mary Crawford had joined them for breakfast that morning, and she'd been obliged to wear this one – this one which, so frustratingly, pleased Mary's brother twice as much as Mary herself – instead of Edmund's again. She'd meant to switch it out again afterwards but had gotten occupied and forgotten.</p><p>Part of her wanted to inform Tom of the joy he'd given her at once.</p><p>He might, she thought happily, even laugh along with her, made merry at having unknowingly ridden her of an unwanted gift – he really might understand her in this better than Edmund could, given <em>he</em> did not have any particularly attachment to Mary Crawford to blind him – and their shared jubilation could only bring them closer.</p><p>Alas, she would then have to explain <em>why </em>it was so unwanted, aside from not being to her taste – she would have to tell him Mary's brother was the original purchaser of the necklace, and she could not bear to tell Tom about Mr. Crawford's as yet still unending attentions.</p><p>These attentions humiliated her, on a consistent basis, yet she could see no good in exposing them.</p><p>Either Tom would be cross on her behalf, and begin a row with Mr. Crawford, which would anger the rest of the Bertram family – with the sole exception, perhaps, of Julia – because they all liked the Crawfords' company, or – worse, and more likely – he would think it unimportant, supposing it all to be a good, harmless joke. He could so easily conclude Crawford was only being friendly. After all, Tom seemed – within reason – to enjoy Mr. Crawford's company every bit as much as the rest of the family.</p><p>Fanny knew, of course, Mr. Crawford's attentions meant nothing, and her husband would hardly be <em>wrong</em> to thoughtlessly dismiss them as perhaps she should do, as she <em>tried</em> to do, but they still distressed her nonetheless.</p><p>So she settled, instead, for showing her gratitude by taking Tom's face in her hands and dragging it to her own for another kiss. A deep kiss given eagerly in a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>!" he laughed, pulling away for breath and gazing at her in considerable wonder. "Whatever was <em>that </em>for?"</p><p>Her lips parted, and she was so warmed by the gentle, very beautiful look about his eyes in that moment she might have told him the whole truth despite herself and risked injuring the Crawfords, but they were interrupted by the sound of Julia's voice from somewhere in the library.</p><p>"<em>They're behind the curtain, aunt – where they </em>always<em> hide.</em>"</p><p>Fanny's eyes widened; Tom grimaced.</p><p>There was a great deal of scrambling, but by the time Aunt Norris had pulled back the curtain, Tom was sitting, seemingly tranquilly, with the book in his lap (notwithstanding that his waistcoat had several buttons done in the wrong places and the book itself was evidently being read upside down) and Fanny was seated beside him, the picture of all innocence, fiddling with the clasp of her necklace, as if she'd been employed in trying to fix a broken chain all this time and was simply keeping her husband company while he read.</p><p>"Your father," said Mrs. Norris, tightly, not properly looking at either of them in her seething anger, for all the effort they'd put forth in making themselves appear presentable, "wished me to inform you the new horse you've purchased has been brought to Mansfield this hour."</p><p>"New horse?" murmured Fanny, her lowered eyes flickering over to Tom questioningly.</p><p>He pushed the book from his lap and it fell to the floor with a <em>thud</em>. Then, beaming, he snatched her hand and <em>squeezed</em>. "Come with me."</p><hr/><p>The new horse Tom had procured was the most singularly beautiful creature Fanny had ever beheld in her life – a magnificent dapple-grey mare.</p><p>"I greatly desire your opinion on this one. The previous owner called her <em>Shakespeare</em>," Tom announced by way of introduction as soon as Fanny was in sight of the animal. "Rather a silly name for a mare. Truly, one would suppose they'd name it Giulietta or Ophelia – or even Hermia, for being little, dark and fierce – if they so wished to honour the bard. There's Wilhelmina if they wish to be trite about it. Whoever heard of calling a mare Shakespeare? It would be different if it were a gelding or stallion, of course..."</p><p>"I think it suits her," murmured Fanny, half alert, wholly entranced, reaching out, as if in a daze, to touch the horse's soft charcoal-coloured muzzle. "And there <em>was</em> Anne Hathaway Shakespeare – the wife – she needn't be named for the bard himself."</p><p>"Fair point, and mind you, Fanny, I've been to the races where they <em>all </em>have silly names, but it's rather different when it's intended for a lady's horse."</p><p>Fanny's hand dropped and she turned to look at her husband in mild surprise. "<em>Is</em> she to be a lady's horse?"</p><p>Tom paused, his expression suggesting he was attempting to gauge something in her face before answering. Finally, he said, in a voice which was almost a drawl, "Naturally." The corners of his mouth curled upwards and his eyes – slightly darkened in hue – twinkled. "I've purchased her for a certain fine lady of my acquaintance."</p><p>"Anybody I know?" Fanny's dimples were sweet, but her light eyes were guileless and did not share her husband's evident comprehension or playfulness.</p><p>"<em>Indeed</em>." He put his hands behind his back and straightened.</p><p><em>Oh</em>, she thought, I see it now – he has purchased this splendid horse for Mary Crawford! If she has her own horse, I shall be able to keep riding Maria's on fine days uninterrupted and without guilt.</p><p><em>It was so</em> good<em> of him – to think of my health and happiness!</em></p><p>She was overcome by his generosity, yet as she kissed the horse's nose and fed it a carrot offered by a groom standing by, she harboured a little secret wish she might have Shakespeare for her <em>own</em> mount. But that was selfish, she told herself, and she mustn't... Surely, though, it could not be wrong to ask to ride her just once? To be certain the mare was not too much of a challenge for Mary? Maria's horse was so gentle, and slow, and although Miss Crawford was learning quickly, she might not be...</p><p>Alas, could she put herself forward so? When she had not long been riding, either? She was not so far ahead of Miss Crawford in riding lessons that she could act superior.</p><p>Indeed, she knew she must never behave in such a vulgar manner as that.</p><p>Still, Tom would let her – let her have one go on what she expected must be the prettiest horse in England, if not the world – if she asked, if she dared. She was almost certain of it.</p><p>She screwed her courage and, not quite meeting his eyes, asked if she could ride her – only a little ways, into the edges of field.</p><p>"By all means" – Tom seemed<em> thrilled</em> – "I'll have the horse saddled at once – you must tell me how you like her, Fanny, and be perfectly honest." The groom brought Tom's own saddle, and he shook his head. "No, for<em> God's sake</em>, it's the damn side-saddle we want – it's my <em>wife</em> that's riding, not I! You can't expect a lady to sit astride!"</p><p>But, behind her nephew scolding the groom, eyes gone hard as stone and hands placed high on her hips, mouth drawn in an expression <em>most</em> pert, Mrs. Norris <em>glowered</em>.</p><p>She clearly, so Fanny gathered, did not approve of this. No doubt the impropriety of Tom spending money, money he might not be in a position to spare, so that Mary could have a horse of her own, all for Fanny's sake, chafed – possibly even scandalised – the frugal woman. But what did Mrs. Norris wish her to do? She could not tell her husband to take back his gift for Miss Crawford, not when it was already in plain sight of so very <em>many</em> persons, and all the staff already knew of it. Word would travel to the parsonage and Mary should be quite <em>slighted</em> if she learned later Fanny attempted to persuade him to take the horse back again for the sake of her own pride, or even simply to placate Mrs. Norris!</p><p>Oh, such acute distress! She almost longed to be back inside, to have not come out at her husband's wishes to see the horse at all.</p><p>She tried not to dwell on feelings of guilt and misery, and how she wished she knew what was <em>right </em>to do in all this, as Tom helped her up into the saddle and handed her the reins.</p><p>After a couple laps around the perimeter of the field, the horse slowly building to a glorious gallop, she slowed back to a canter and then a trot as she brought the mare towards Tom and Mrs. Norris again.</p><p>As she alighted, Tom, still all smiles, asked why she was so Friday-faced.</p><p>Fanny's eyes were cast downward, fixed on her feet. "I'm not," she quavered, though she was, really. "I'm not at all. Truly."</p><p>"I should think <em>not</em>!" cried Mrs. Norris, leaning forward. "That unnecessary addition to the stables has cost more than a spoiled child in your wife's position can fathom. The ingratitude of young people these days, when they are given–"</p><p>"You do <em>like</em> her, though," cut in Tom; "don't you, Fanny?"</p><p><em>Like </em>her? The word was not enough. <em>Like</em>. No. She <em>loved</em> the horse, adored it beyond measure, though it surely would not do to say so. "Oh, yes, very much."</p><p>Tom nodded; it was good enough for him. "She's yours, then."</p><p>Fanny felt as if her eyes would never stop widening; she knew they must look very buggy and unattractive, though it could not be helped. "<em>Mine</em>?"</p><p>"Of course, who else did you suppose I bought the ruddy beast for?"</p><p>Her cheeks grew hot. "I–" She did not know how to explain. "That is, I thought it must be for–" And she managed to croak out who she'd suspected the horse's intended owner to be.</p><p>Throwing back his head, Tom laughed so hard he was nearly <em>howling</em>. His shoulders shook and tears ran from the corners of his eyes. When he had secured enough breath to speak again, he exclaimed, hoarsely, still a little winded from laughter, "<em>Miss Crawford</em>? You <em>are</em> such a<em> funny</em> little thing sometimes, Fanny! What is Miss Crawford to me that I should think of getting her a fancy mount? I'm not in the habit of buying elaborate presents for women who turn down my brother's offer of marriage. Besides, she has a horse now – Maria's, which I've already sold to Henry Crawford."</p><p>"Against my expressed wishes," added Mrs. Norris, looking sternly at Fanny as if she sensed not only ingratitude but insincerity – and possibly a bit of hypocrisy – as well in her manner. "All for the sake of pleasing you and displacing your cousin."</p><p>"S-she's..." Fanny stammered, her eyes going from the horse to Tom, trying to avoid Mrs. Norris' gaze. "I can keep her? She's really for <em>me</em>?"</p><p>Tom blinked, clearly wondering if she could be in earnest. "Of course she is!"</p><p>Squealing, Fanny leaped forward, threw her arms around Tom's neck, and kicked up her feet, clinging to him and planting a kiss on his cheek. "<em>Thank you</em>."</p><p>"For mercy's sake, Fanny, there's no need to make such a display of yourself," snapped Mrs. Norris, rolling her eyes. "Tom has given you a very expensive present; you might think to show some propriety and accept it with good graces – none of these false tears and fawning. It's really <em>most</em> unbecoming."</p><hr/><p>Tom did not have the pleasure of spending every day delighting Fanny with new surprises – often, following breakfast, and apart from their brief trysts in the library, which they seriously thought of moving elsewhere more than once, given they were now aware even <em>Julia</em> knew about it – they might not see each other on fine days until tea or supper, and they might not be alone for any extended period of time until they retired to their chambers for the evening. He began to grow quite fond of rainy afternoons which kept him at home in a way he never had previously, not even when they'd provided him with occasion to sit indoors and draw. Such afternoons now meant he might sit in Fanny's company without chance of being asked by anyone if he really oughtn't be out doing something for the estate, or told by his father to get off the sofa – stop lolling about in the sitting-room with the ladies, for the love of all that was holy – and shoot something out of doors.</p><p>On <em>one</em> particularly fine day, however, Tom was able to persuade his father he did not need to do anything of importance and would be better off taking Fanny to have a picnic on the grounds.</p><p>"You know, sir," he'd wheeled, when Sir Thomas hesitated to agree, "it must be done before the heat of the day – or she risks a headache being out there under the sun."</p><p>"I have noticed," his father relented, "that parasols don't seem to do Fanny any real good, and she has been looking pale lately – eating out of doors today might bring some colour back to her face. Yes, if you're back well before tea and don't shirk your duties afterwards, I can't see the harm."</p><p>And so they sat, on a blanket under an oak tree, actually within sight of the pond Tom had once attempted to paddle across to avoid his father after he'd first brought Fanny here to Mansfield, eating from a hamper and looking at the clear blue sky above them.</p><p>After eating, Tom took out his sketchbook and started working on a drawing of a silver birch.</p><p>Fanny scooted closer beside him so she could see.</p><p>He stopped for a moment, lowering his charcoal stick and rubbing his stained fingers together pensively. "Have you ever thought to take up drawing yourself?"</p><p>She shook her head. "<em>Me</em>? No, indeed. No, I'd rather watch you."</p><p>"You know, creepmouse, what I ought to do is <em>force</em> you to try it – as I'm sure Edmund would do in my place – and we'd probably discover you were Leonard da Vinci reincarnated, if what's happened to you with riding is any indication."</p><p>"You're teasing me."</p><p>He smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. "Only a little." Then, "Besides, I'm <em>not</em> Edmund, and my vanity simply won't allow me to do as I know I ought." He reached out and stroked her jawline with his thumb, leaving a charcoal smudge on her face, trailing towards her chin. "I like you watching too well to stop for a <em>lesson</em>. And I can't teach to save my life."</p><hr/><p>"<em>Henry</em>!" hissed Mary Crawford, coming behind her brother and tapping him on the shoulder as he stared out from behind the hedge. "Lord give me patience! Are those<em> my</em> opera glasses?"</p><p>Spinning to face his sister, Henry gave her a sheepish grin and held them out to her. "You don't mind?"</p><p>"Yes, Henry, of course I<em> mind</em>," she sighed, rolling her eyes as she reached out and snatched them back. "What were you doing out here with those anyway?"</p><p>"Ah." He motioned over his shoulder, towards the grassy expanse beyond the hedge. "Mr. and Mrs. Bertram were sitting out of doors – just a ways off, it's a picnic, I think." He cleared his throat. "I was–"</p><p>"Spying on them?" she said sweetly, brow raised.</p><p>"For lack of a better term, yes, but it's not what you think."</p><p>Tucking her opera glasses securely in her reticule before reaching to secure a loose hat pin to avoid her hat slipping backwards and ruining her hair, Mary sighed, "What I think is you're sour over losing – over Mrs. Bertram not returning any of your attentions – and are torturing yourself."</p><p>Henry shook his head. "No. It's not bitterness, Mary. It's–" He hesitated. "How can I explain it? The side of Mrs. Bertram – of Fanny – I've seen recently has changed my mind entirely; she has real, deep feeling, and I'm sorry to have ever dreamed of trifling with her."</p><p>Mary was stunned. "Can this be my brother Henry who speaks?"</p><p>"I've never seen anyone so adoring as she has been, so inexpressively good-natured."</p><p>"Alas, such affection is all for her husband, with none to spare for <em>you</em>, so I can't imagine what good that does your vanity."</p><p>Henry forced a little chuckle of concession. "Ah. I've been horrid, to persecute such an innocent creature, I know – but my feelings are not–"</p><p>"<em>Feelings</em>...?" echoed Mary, as if trying to work out, to piece together, what her brother meant, what he was getting at. Then, comprehension and mild horror. "God, Henry, no! She's <em>married</em>!"</p><p>"To a man completely unworthy of her." Henry's expression grew mournful.</p><p>"There have been worse matches made in which the bride does not climb so high so smoothly as Fanny has," Mary pointed out. "She was from a poor family, an impoverished relation. He is to be a baronet."</p><p>"Yes, but even you didn't want him once you got to know him."</p><p>"There's nothing very wrong with Tom Bertram, save he never asked me, and you know it."</p><p>"<em>Nothing very wrong</em>," snorted Henry. "High praise indeed, sister."</p><p>"You know very well what I <em>mean</em>!"</p><p>"Would that I had been fortunate enough to have business in Portsmouth and meet her first, while she was yet Miss Price," he sighed.</p><p>"And she would have looked very dull to you there, indeed, I should think, without the allure of belonging to anyone else."</p><p>"You do me great wrong in assuming such – if once I had seen such feeling in her as I see now, I would have–"</p><p>"You're not telling me," laughed Mary, removing her hat pin completely and attempting to rearrange the hat, "you would have married her yourself if she was free. You love to joke, to tease and scandalise, but that is <em>not</em> what you're really saying, I'm sure of it. Pray stop at once, I fear you take it too far."</p><p>"It <em>is</em> what I'm really saying."</p><p>The hat and pin together fell from Mary's hand and landed on the ground. "You... You mean to say you're actually in love with Mrs. Bertram?"</p><p>"Alas, yes, I fear so."</p><p>"Oh, poor Henry." She did, truly, appear to sympathise, despite herself. "You do recall what you promised me about discretion, don't you?"</p><p>"Of course." His eyes rolled heavenward. "What do you take me for?"</p><p>"It is a shame, in a way – she would have fixed you, you know; she would have made you happy forever. Fanny is all gratitude and devotion, exactly what you like and what you would deserve in a wife if it were only possible."</p><p>"She is such a woman as I will never find again," admitted Henry, his voice grave and self-pitying. "She would have made me happy, but in return I could have made her... Oh, what I could have made of her!" His eyes darkened a shade. "Tom Bertram doesn't know what he's got. I've been observing them as of late, and all he does is paw at her like a clumsy imbecile and she, poor creature, meekly concedes."</p><p>"Oh, poor Tom," giggled Mary. "Don't be so cruel. Remember he has never been ungracious to you – remember he is your <em>friend</em>. It's not a fair comparison, and it's wicked and vain of you to try and make it. He doesn't<em> know</em> any better – I doubt he's had half the experience with women you have. At least he attempts, in his way, to make amends for his previous neglect of his wife."</p><p>"I could concede to your point if it weren't for the looks he gives her – they are not the loving expressions she deserves," said Henry woefully. "He knows she's special, but not <em>how</em> – she's nothing but a lucky find to bring home, like one of his horses. I've seen the looks he gives the horses in his stables, and the looks he gives his wife; they're quite the same satisfied expression. It chills the blood to see. I do not know how she endures it."</p><p>"I think she does rather more than <em>endure</em> it – you've already made her a saint in your heart, there's no need to make her a martyr as well – whatever attentions Tom shows her, regardless of what you think she deserves, regardless of them being clumsy and thoughtless, it's more than just vague consent she gives, as you would have it. You must face the facts; she <em>likes</em> it – she <em>enjoys</em> it. Trust me, it takes another woman to tell."</p><p>"I confess I do not understand what appeal Bertram holds for her." Henry did sound baffled. "He's well-looking and fit, to be sure – he's not <em>Rushworth</em>, as you've said, and that's greatly to his credit, no doubt, but that only goes so far. Fanny, I think, does not care for money... I can suspect it is only raw gratitude that he should raise her from one circumstance in life to another."</p><p>"Oh, you might have asked me sooner if you wanted to know, Henry." Mary bent down to retrieve her hat (the pin was quite lost and she would need a new one) before the rising breeze about them could think of blowing it away. "For I can tell you exactly what the appeal is."</p><p>"I'm all ears."</p><p>"Can you really not see it?" She vigorously brushed a trace of dirt off the hat with the side of her hand and shook dust from the attached feather and ribbons. "Fanny is one of those rare girls who has married her first fancy. One so seldom sees a wife follow her husband around like a starry-eyed puppy, or dote on him as our Mrs. Bertram does whenever she can get away with it, because most wives are only <em>resigned</em> to marriage – it's typically a business arrangement.</p><p>"In Fanny's case, though, well, <em>think</em> on it. She may have never had the stirrings of a first fancy in Portsmouth – slim pickings, no doubt – before a young heir turned up on her doorstep and announced he was her cousin from her mother's side. He's the first man she's ever liked, possibly the first man she's ever felt any kind of attraction to. And he purposed marriage. She's still as overawed by girlish infatuation, I think, as the day they met. Therefore, anything Tom might ask of her, provided it does not go against her sensibilities, she's only too happy to oblige him with – they do say love is blind."</p><p>This, while it might have been true to a point, did not console Henry Crawford in the least. If anything, it only convinced him if <em>he</em> had been the one to meet her first, before her rather ridiculous cousin, she would indeed have accepted him and been made perfectly happy. He sighed again, looking once more over his shoulder, then returned – in the gloomiest of spirits – to the parsonage at his sister's side.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Cages, Where They Are Not</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Twenty-Seven:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Cages, Where They Are Not</em>
</p><p>"Now that I'm a wise old married man," Tom Bertram said conversationally, taking a turn about the billiard room before selecting his mace stick, "I declare that I cannot, for the life of me, understand why your average married gentlemen always seems to be so very <em>miserable</em> – gloomily hiding in the side-rooms whenever they dine out, looking like they've had the life sucked out of them. The matrimonial state is nothing to bemoan so far as I can see."</p><p>"Well, many gentlemen," said Mr. Yates pensively, "tend to quarrel with their wives."</p><p>"Oh, quarrelling is most tiresome, to be sure, I grant all men that in utmost solidarity," agreed Tom, rather cheerfully, smirking to himself. "But I like the bit that comes<em> after</em>."</p><p>"And what bit is that?" Yates glanced behind himself at the wall. "Oh, by the way, old bean, you haven't got any of those <em>new-styled </em>cues about, have you? I've got rather a preference for them."</p><p>"We <em>have</em>, actually, just there." Tom motioned to one hanging on the same wall his friend had been looking at, simply a little further to the left. "That is, as I was saying, I like when the quarrel is over and it's time for making up. That's the bit I find very agreeable indeed. Gentlemen whinging about being caught never seem to mention it, somehow, which leads one to have no expectation of such a thing, and – let me tell you – it's <em>glorious</em>."</p><p>Edmund, watching him critically from the opposite end of the room – where he sat silently reading a book of sermons – and no doubt thinking him speaking far too openly on such things to Mr. Yates, sniffed, "And how often do you even manage to quarrel with Fanny, Tom?"</p><p>"Not very, if you must know," he snapped. In a sweeter voice, he added, "In truth, we've only had the one <em>real </em>quarrel – when I came back from Weymouth – but I've made a point of trying to pick small fights with her to start up a fresh one."</p><p>Edmund sighed deeply, placed his thumb between the leaves of his book as a sort of marker, and closed the covers. "Tom, I would ask you not to take this the wrong way, but I must give voice to my reluctant, sorrowful conclusion that you are, in fact, the spawn of Satan and well beyond any help I could ever offer."</p><p>"Oh, you <em>do</em> say the nicest things, Edmund," simpered Tom, rolling his eyes. "I'm deeply moved."</p><p>"Any man who would actively seek to quarrel with someone as gentle as Fanny is a cad."</p><p>"Nonsense, brother, it's all in good fun – I suspect she wouldn't mind, not if she understood what I was really about – besides, the point is moot since she doesn't even seem to <em>notice</em>." Tom chuckled to himself. "That damnable sweet nature of hers prevents her from realising she's being tyrannised, endlessly needled by a husband who wishes to get a rise out of her."</p><p>"Was that a double entendre?" asked Mr. Yates.</p><p>Edmund ignored that, speaking over their guest. "I did warn her, before she married you, what you were."</p><p>"Then it's a good thing you're a parson and not a merchant," Tom teased, taking his mace stick and approaching the table. "I'll break, and then you can have a go, John." Then, by way of concluding his former thought, "Edmund couldn't sell water to a man dying of thirst in the hottest desert."</p><p>"Am I interrupting anything?" Fanny's small golden head peered around the half-opened door.</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>!" Tom's face lit up like a candle as he whirled around. "Of course you aren't – you've simply livened up a dull, grey afternoon for us all." He took a step away from the billiard table, hands outstretched. "Come here, I'll show you how to play."</p><p>"Oh, no. Thank you." Her cheeks flushed and she placed her hands shyly behind her back. "I prefer to watch."</p><p>"Come <em>here</em>, for pity's sake – and no argument – you'll break with me, at least, before I take mercy and give you leave to watch as you like." He waved her forward and – when she crept towards him in compliance – he pulled her to him so he might wrap his arms about her. "Poor little creepmouse of mine." He pushed lightly so that they were closer to the table, Fanny then being obliged to fold her abdomen against its side. "So timid. You're <em>shaking</em> – you needn't, you're doing nothing by yourself." His mouth pressed against her ear, his lips brushing against her lope as he spoke, "Let my fingers guide your hands, I'll show you where to hold the mace and we'll push out on my say so."</p><p>"As you like, Mr. Bertram," murmured Fanny, her shaking ceasing as she began to enjoy the warmth she was enfolded into, though she was shy of everyone watching.</p><p>"<em>Tom</em>," he corrected, pressing closer against her still, though that scarcely had seemed possible a moment ago when all space between them already felt inexistent. "Now. Shall I give the word on the count of three?"</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>"<em>One</em>..." He leaned his face against hers so that they were cheek to cheek. "<em>Two</em>..."</p><p>"Well, well, this <em>is</em> a cosy party for a rainy day!" cried a cheerful female voice in the doorway. "I'm glad, after all, that Mrs. Grant persuaded the both of us to take the carriage and visit when we were so deadly-dull at the parsonage."</p><p>"<em>Miss Crawford</em>," Edmund exclaimed delightedly. "What a pleasure! We weren't expecting you today."</p><p>Tom let go of Fanny – who released a breathy little <em>sigh</em> and spun out of his arms panting softly – and turned to see Mary and her brother entering the room.</p><p>"Are you well, Mrs. Bertram?" asked Henry Crawford, studying her face. "You seem to be struggling for breath."</p><p>Fanny only reddened all the more deeply and, wringing her hands, mumbled she was perfectly fine, thank you, though – for the first time since entering the room – she no longer seemed pleased to be there.</p><p>Tom did briefly wonder at that, finally putting it down as one of her many minor oddities of temperament. Still, she'd been enjoying herself up until a moment ago, he was certain of it – he'd felt her excitement as she quivered in his arms, heard the smothered giggles she was swallowing back, and now she was quite subdued; quite altered. She was such a <em>funny</em> thing, sometimes, with her shifting humours, his little waning moonbeam of a wife. She could without warning become the most shrinking of all shrinking violets. Why should guests dampen her spirits so rapidly? It was only the <em>Crawfords</em>, after all, nobody new or shocking – they were not <em>strangers</em>.</p><p>It was all most baffling indeed, if one cared to dwell on it, which was – decidedly – simply not Tom's way.</p><p>And so he dismissed it.</p><hr/><p>With the Crawfords joined to their party, and Mary Crawford not particularly fond of billiards though she could play well enough when called upon to do so, it was inevitable that they – Mr. Yates, Edmund, Tom, Henry, Mary, and Fanny – would all remove themselves and regroup elsewhere in the house and come, eventually, to be seated near the pianoforte.</p><p>Mary brightly declared, if it were only not raining, she could find some means of conveying her harp from the parsonage and give them all a performance. And Fanny found herself thinking, a trifle gloomily, that if it were not raining they might have found amusement elsewhere and left her and the Bertrams alone. Indeed, she – though she knew it to be uncharitable – wished the sun might come out and take them both back to the parsonage. There, Mary could play her beloved harp however much they desired without impediment, without feeling the need to lug the instrument about and show it off.</p><p>She felt a little better about the visit when Susan came into the room and sat beside herself and Tom. Having her sister present with this company made her feel more protected. Susan, younger though she was, might more readily notice any excessiveness in Henry's manner to Fanny as the others did not and be a private comfort to her, even if she could do nothing about it.</p><p>"Is Julia coming?" Fanny whispered, speaking under her breath so only Susan could hear, though it was for precious little, given Henry – not too far off – inclined his head slightly, as if listening for any word from her.</p><p>"No," Susan whispered back, regarding Henry from the corner of her eye. "She wouldn't come out of her old room when she heard Mr. Crawford was here. I feel sorry for Mr. Yates, though – you can see how badly he wants her here."</p><p>Fanny did see it, now that Susan mentioned it, and thought herself rather wicked and selfish for not having noticed it earlier in the day, for not having asked Julia to accompany her to the billiard room initially.</p><p>Such an invitation would have made them friends, perhaps, and given Mr. Yates and Julia both at least a few moments of felicity before the Crawfords arrived.</p><p>And, lamenting this, she sighed.</p><p>"Did you sigh, Mrs. Bertram?" asked Henry Crawford.</p><p>"No," she said, too quickly.</p><p>"You <em>did</em>, though, Fanny," blurted Tom, blinking innocently and failing entirely to notice the withering look Susan shot him. "You certainly did just sigh – I heard you. Whatever's the matter?"</p><p>"I was thinking," she said, voicing the only truth she could in front of this party, "how sorry I am your sister is not with us, Mr. Bertram."</p><p>Mr. Yates immediately tripped over himself praising Mrs. Bertram for her feeling – fawning rather over-much on her acute tenderness in thinking of her dear, dear cousin – but Tom only laughed, "Good God, is that <em>all</em>?" as though the thought of Julia joining them had never so much as crossed his mind – indeed, it never had.</p><p>"Perhaps Miss Bertram will join us on the next rainy day, or later today – should she feel more equal to it by and by," said Mary, straightening her back and stationing herself beside the pianoforte. "Now which of you fine gentlemen shall have the pleasure of playing so I might sing for you all?"</p><p>Henry volunteered to oblige his sister, and – somewhat to Fanny's annoyance – he played almost as well as he read aloud. He made only two mistakes and managed to work both of them into the music to make them seem quite intentional; both times Fanny found herself questioning whether they <em>were</em> proper mistakes or not, or if she was – feeling out of sorts – looking for fault in a gentleman she was finding it difficult to like today.</p><p>She did not have enough confidence in her limited knowledge of music to say for certain one way or the other.</p><p>Taking a sip of wine from what was his third – or was it fourth? – glass since the Crawfords' arrival, Tom tapped Fanny on the shoulder and said, "Mmm, Miss Crawford has rather a good voice, don't you think?"</p><p>"Yes," she said, more stiffly than she intended, speaking through a somewhat clenched jaw.</p><p>"Her brother plays well enough for her, though he's made two mistakes – and those are only the ones I've <em>noticed</em>. I'll say this for him, he covers them up brilliantly."</p><p>Fanny fought the urge to smile. She had been quite correct, then.</p><p>"That's enough, I should think," Edmund declared, once Mary had performed two – rather lengthy – songs for them.</p><p>"Why Edmund, you spoil-sport," laughed Tom, waving his near-empty glass, "permit the lady to sing another if she desires. And let us, in turn, be silent and gaze upon her in awe – it is only what she wants, I should think. And we are all furthermore enjoying ourselves immensely listening."</p><p>"I would not have her sing herself into a sore throat for our sakes."</p><p>"I thank you, Edmund," said Mary, "but I <em>never</em> take ill. My throat is never raw."</p><p>"He's quite right," Henry decided, rising from the piano-seat. "Moreover my wrists have grown sore – it is not only my dear sister's comfort which must be thought of. I'm getting rather fagged myself."</p><p>In a flash of unguarded thought, Fanny secretly wished him a sprain, then felt her cheeks heat as she coloured with guilt at the unwarranted cruelty of her mind.</p><p>"But we must do <em>something</em> to amuse ourselves," sighed Tom, plainly irritable at this halt in the entertainment; then, brightening considerably, he added, "I say! Mr. Yates, have you still got those song-sheets from our friends in Weymouth?"</p><p>"Why, yes – I <em>have</em>! Such a splendid idea, Bertram, my fine fellow!" He clapped his hand together. "Let me fetch them at once."</p><p>"<em>Excellent</em>." He smiled at Fanny adoringly before he leapt to his feet. "You'll get to hear me play, wife. I don't think you have yet, have you?"</p><p>"No, I have not yet had the pleasure." And this time she could not hide her smile.</p><p>"Tom, you <em>barely</em> play." Edmund gave him a wary look. He touched his brother's shoulder uncertainly. "This isn't going to be like the time you changed all the words to what was formerly a perfectly innocent song so that it rhymed with parts of your anatomy, is it?"</p><p>Tom glared and shook off his hand. "Oh, for mercy's <em>sake</em> – you really need to remove the stick from your arse and let that one <em>go</em>! I was <em>fifteen</em>."</p><p>Edmund's brow furrowed. "No, you weren't; you were twenty-one!"</p><p>Tom hesitated, lips pursed. "Oh...right..." He blinked. "Yes, I remember now." He chuckled. "Good times." Then, "Well, it's no matter, Edmund – because <em>I </em>shan't sing." He waggled his eyebrows. "I will play and <em>you</em> can sing for us."</p><p>Miss Crawford clapped her hands together. "Oh, <em>do</em>. Please."</p><p>Edmund agreed, eager to add to Mary's pleasure; but he had a full change of heart when he saw the lyrics from the song-sheet Mr. Yates provided him with upon his return.</p><p>"<em>Blow The Candles Out</em>? Are you <em>mad</em>, Tom?" he hissed. "You expect me to stand in front of the present company and sing such words? I'm certain our father would not approve."</p><p>"He's in his study," said Tom, coolly, making a sidestep as if towards the door; "why don't we go ask him?"</p><p>"It's trash, and you know it," insisted Edmund, unrelenting.</p><p>"It's <em>old</em>," argued Tom.</p><p>"And did those in the old days have only pure thoughts to spare a pen for?"</p><p>Tom pouted sardonically. "So serious."</p><p>"That is the worst charge, isn't it, Tom? And where, might I ask, did yourself and Yates obtain such a song?"</p><p>His expression hardened. "From an acquaintance of mine we shall call <em>shut up</em>."</p><p>Fanny's heart was again jaggedly divided, as it so often was, between the two differing opinions of the pair of gentlemen in this household who were dearest to her.</p><p>She had not yet heard the song, and so could not discern for herself if it was acceptable or not – and she so did want to hear her husband play – but she trusted Edmund's judgement in matters of taste over Tom's as a rule. Edmund would not have thought it all right, for any reason, to paint women unclothed in a house of ill-repute, whereas Tom was more flexible – always had been – in his mortality. Moreover, given his reaction, and what he'd said to Mr. Yates, mentioning Weymouth, Fanny felt certain those from the sketch she'd seen were the very women who had provided the music currently in question. She could not make herself – however badly she wished to please Tom, to promote his happiness and express her pleasure in him and his talents – <em>like</em> anything which came from <em>them</em>.</p><p>"I won't sing it." Edmund moved away from the pianoforte. "I have no wish to make a fool of myself in the present company."</p><p>"Never mind – I don't <em>need</em> you." Tom made a little popping noise of dismissal with his mouth then snapped his fingers at Mr. Yates. "Your voice is good enough for this, John, and it's your music – come here."</p><p>As Tom seated himself and began to play, Fanny's expression lighted with surprised recognition. She knew the song – so would Susan, if she recalled the tune – she remembered as one of those which her father had sung from returning from The Crown after a night of drinking.</p><p>It <em>was</em> an old one.</p><p>Mr. Yates' singing voice was a low baritone she would not have guessed from his timbre of speech.</p><p>
  <em>When I was apprenticed in London, I went to see my dear...</em>
</p><p>How she ought to feel eluded Fanny in that moment. She was sorry for Edmund and Tom both, respectively, and she knew she ought either enjoy herself to show solidarity with the one or be still and expressionless to support the other. Yet her own emotions, those unconnected to their disagreement, left her in some distress she could not explain. Tom was not Mr. Price. For all she had fretted over making the same mistake as her mother, save in reverse, wedding a wealthy drunkard for love where a heartsick Miss Ward had chosen a poor drunkard for the very same desperate reason, she had seen starkly different qualities in her husband than those in her father. Tom was refined where her father was more inclined to be gross and crass; Tom was a gentleman, and – even when provoked – of another disposition to Mr. Price entirely. Yet every once in a while, when she was with her husband in unguarded moments, she would have an unpleasant reminder of her parents and feel ill at ease.</p><p>She wished it were another song, though she could not, after all, <em>dislike</em> this one for all that.</p><p>
  <em>Your father and your mother, in yonder room do lie...</em>
</p><p>There was a sweetness in Tom's playing, ill-trained though it was, and a cheerfulness in Mr. Yates' singing, which were impossible for her heart to dismiss without experiencing a bit of the merriment they both possessed being passed onto herself.</p><p>
  <em>...so why not you and I?</em>
</p><p>Mr. Yates halted – <em>Tom</em> had the music, from which he was playing, and Yates' memory was not his best attribute. "Damn, I forget the next part."</p><p>Rolling his eyes indulgently, Tom began to take over, singing and playing together – much to the relief of a grateful Mr. Yates, who pressed his hand to his throat and <em>sighed</em>.</p><p>
  <em>I prithee speak more softly of what we have to do, lest that our noise of talking should make our pleasure rue.</em>
</p><p>Having the uncomfortable sense of being too closely observed fall over her, Fanny turned her head to see Henry looking at her intently. No one else seemed to notice, as they were all employed in watching Tom – even Edmund, who leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest.</p><p>Willing herself to ignore the boring, relentless eyes of Mr. Crawford, Fanny let <em>her</em> gaze drift back to Tom as well. Even when following an afternoon of undeniable over-drinking, he had rather a nice voice – he was certainly musical, if not the clearest in enunciation – and she had great pleasure in listening to him. She liked to hear him sing. Regardless of the rest, she liked it, as she liked him.</p><p>
  <em>The people walk about... They may peep in and spy, love. So blow the candles out...</em>
</p><p>At that line, Fanny was certain Tom had turned the smallest fraction in his seat and let his eyes flicker directly to – then <em>linger</em> on – her as he sang, and she, already vividly coloured, became momentarily <em>crimson</em> from hairline to collarbone.</p><p>
  <em>And if we prove successful–</em>
</p><p>"<em>Thank you</em>, Tom, I do believe that's quite enough." His father's reproachful hand clamped down and closed the pianoforte so that Tom had no choice but to withdraw his fingers from the keys if he didn't want them stuck underneath.</p><p>Oh! Fanny had not seen him come in – she'd been so focused upon Tom, and briefly and unpleasantly, Henry, as well, that she had failed to notice the latest addition to their party enter the room.</p><p>Doing his best to recover from this, and show it did not affect his spirits, Tom stood up and gave a little bow while Edmund – stomping over and muttering – dragged him off and Sir Thomas took up the sheet music and tossed it, without a backwards glance, into the glowing warmth of the fireplace.</p><p>Mr. Yates was downcast, but tried to make the best by declaring they'd only been playing a silly tune for fun, the subject of which was–</p><p>"<em>Yes</em>, Mr. Yates." Sir Thomas rubbed his temples. "While I appreciate the attempt at amiability on your part, I believe I'm <em>most capable </em>of comprehending the general idea without spoken aid, thank you."</p><p>"We had hoped, father, to beg your indulgence," said Tom, pulling roughly away from Edmund, who was shushing him – or, rather, attempting to, at any rate. "As inexperienced musicians."</p><p>"You have my indulgence, freely given," he told his son, with an eye cast past him to the wineglass he'd left by the piano-seat. "But without the sing-along."</p><p>"I did warn you," muttered Edmund, shaking his head.</p><p>"As if it matters to <em>you</em>, one way or the other," he snarled. "You're just a prude who can't sing."</p><p>Edmund was visibly stung, and Fanny – watching him attempt to hide his wounded expression at his brother's jab – pitied him greatly.</p><p>Tom plopped down dourly between Fanny and Susan without another word.</p><p>Susan whispered, "I thought you were rather good. And Mr. Yates, too."</p><p>Tom smiled tightly and patted the back of her hand. "Thank you, sister." His other hand took the nearest one of Fanny's. He bit back a yelp. "God, creepmouse, your fingers are like ice" – he dragged her hand into his waistcoat breast pocket with a tinge of vexation, attempting to thaw it – "why do you never <em>speak up</em> when you are cold?"</p><hr/><p>Later, after supper that evening, when the rain had let up (or else Sir Thomas, despite his general preference for familial privacy, really might have had the Crawfords to stay the night, carriage or no carriage) and it was time to be taking their leave, Henry had it in his head to say goodbye to Mrs. Bertram before departing, but he could not see her anywhere about him.</p><p>Susan was with Lady Bertram in the drawing-room, and – perhaps because he found the cosiest nook unoccupied by anyone else and enjoyed the tranquillity of sitting with the ladies – Mr. Yates had wound up there, too, reading some newspaper or other.</p><p>Edmund, Mary, and Henry himself had been in the library, for Mary insisted the location of a particular country was in a place Edmund swore it was not, and – after some playful banter about the matter was exchanged – they'd all flocked to the atlas to be sure of who'd had the right of it.</p><p>According to the atlas, Edmund had been correct and Mary mistaken, but Mary flatly refused to concede to this point; she was certain, she told them until the very last, the atlas must have been outdated. And Edmund, with a small shake of the head, laughed and said Mary was in a very teasing mood indeed that evening. Henry did not bother telling him he knew his sister to be wholly in earnest.</p><p>Where Mrs. Bertram had gone was unknown to the lot of them.</p><p>Indeed, Henry had supposed her to be in the drawing-room with her sister, and was surprised not to find her there when he came to make his farewells.</p><p>"You'd best leave it, I think, Henry," Mary whispered to him, when he decided to look for her. "If she wished to hear your goodbyes, I'm sure she'd have waited up."</p><p>Henry was adamant. "I'll only search the lower floors – I'm not indiscreet. But I shan't be at peace all night if I haven't said so much as a fare-thee-well to the one person worth looking at here."</p><p>Mary, grumbling about what a fool he was, trudged loyally at his side all the same while he peered into various doors.</p><p>"If there's no light lit," she said in a horrified hiss, grasping his shoulder, "there's no need to peek your head in! What can you be thinking? We'll both be taken up for nosy adventurers – the very <em>worst</em> sort of guests – and never invited here again, whatever Edmund Bertram might plead in our favour for my sake, and it shall be all your fault. And I won't forgive you for it, either."</p><p>"Look," said he, pointing, "the billiard room is lit."</p><p>"Yes, <em>fine</em>" – Mary blew out her cheeks in exasperation – "if she's in the billiard room, you can wish her goodnight, otherwise, we're going to the carriage!"</p><p>Fanny was, in fact, in the billiard room, seated in a corner and employed with sewing a little cushion for her as yet rarely seen puppy, as was Tom who had decided to keep her company when Mr. Yates refused to let him have a turn reading the paper and the rest of the blasted party got into an exceedingly boring quarrel over something to do with geography.</p><p>And perhaps he was a little ashamed – or so Henry supposed – to be out-and-out <em>drunk</em>, as he quite visibly was, in his mother's presence (not that she'd noticed).</p><p>For whatever reason, Tom had decided to show Fanny he was capable of juggling the billiard balls.</p><p>The Crawfords in the doorway watched as she glanced up from her work. "Tom, do be careful – you'll hurt yourself."</p><p>"<em>Nonsense</em>. S'easy," he slurred. "I've been doing this since I was a child. I never drop them. There's nothing t'worry about, on m'honour. <em>Look</em>."</p><p>"They're too heavy."</p><p>But for the first five seconds or so, Tom did all right – Henry thought he really must have been juggling them since childhood, as he'd claimed, for him to be able to succeed even that much in his inebriated state.</p><p>"Mr. Bertram," began Mary, "we've come to take our lea–"</p><p>Crash. Bang. <em>Clonk</em>!</p><p>Henry was already biting back an oath, bent forward, and clutching at his ankle before he knew what had hit him. "<em>Ow</em>!"</p><p>"Oh, s'unforunate," said Tom, grimacing. "You really shouldn't sneak up on someone juggling heavy objects – that's just asking for trouble!" He hiccuped twice, blinking blearily. "Fanny, perhaps you'd better get somebody to help Mr. Crawford. S'got to <em>hurt</em>."</p><p>Swallowing back an oath and limping to his sister, Henry insisted he was all right – nothing broken, he was fairly sure – and if Mary would take one of his arms, and Fanny the other, he would make it to the carriage and Mrs. Grant would attend him at the parsonage.</p><p>"Well, you heard t'man, Fanny."</p><p>Fanny hesitated. She glanced over her shoulder at Tom with widened eyes. "Must I?"</p><p>"For pit'sake, <em>I'd</em> do it if I could manage t'stand up straight." Tom – as it happened – had been leaning against the side of the billiard table the entire time, even while juggling, and when he stepped away, he swayed rather too much to one side or the other, as if he might fall over. "Damn room does seem inclined to <em>spin</em> so tonight." He pressed his hand to his forehead.</p><p>Fanny tensed.</p><p>"He shan't be too heavy for you," Mary said, beckoning her over sweetly. "Not with me holding his other arm. I assure you the load will be nothing worth fretting over, Mrs. Bertram."</p><p>Giving, at last, a shaky nod, Fanny came over and took Henry's arm. He smiled at her touch, and wondered that she – shy thing – would not suffer to look at him for longer than a couple of seconds at a go.</p><p>Henry thought it the most bittersweet of partings when they arrived at the carriage and she let go of him. He should have liked to take her back with him to the parsonage, away from her intoxicated husband, and he lamented that – in another time and place which was not modern England where such things were quite unheard of – he might have done so.</p><p>It was then, spying the cross dangling from her neck as she helped Mary settle him down and pulled away, he realised, with disappointment, she was not wearing the necklace he'd bought her but rather her old thinner chain again. For, yes, in actually, he had bought it for her and her alone – Mary had never come into the picture at all except as a sly go-between.</p><p>As the carriage took off, and Fanny disappeared back inside the house, vanishing from the departing view of Henry's window, he sighed, "Ah, Mary, to leave her like this!"</p><p>"Not this <em>again</em>." She groaned and brought a hand to her brow. "I begged you to stop tormenting yourself – I positively<em> implored</em> you, Henry, and you promised me to <em>try</em>."</p><p>"He's a shameless drunkard."</p><p>"That bothered you very little when you thought<em> I</em> might marry him."</p><p>"I hadn't <em>noticed</em> then."</p><p>"<em>Thank you</em>," she quipped.</p><p>"But, seriously, to drink to excess like that – and in front of so many people, including his own parents!" cried Henry, aghast. "His poor lovely wife. Poor, most grievously put upon Mrs. Bertram."</p><p>"Think sensibly for a moment, and your heated blood may well cool off." She shifted forward in her seat. "Fanny, you forget, was not raised among the gentry – I'm sure Tom is not the first intoxicated man she's ever encountered."</p><p>"She was upset all day – did you not notice?"</p><p>"Indeed, she seemed herself to me."</p><p>Henry shook his head. "She was not; she was in distress from the first moment we walked in, I saw it plainly. She was so relieved when Tom let go of her. And you did not see how she <em>looked</em> at me, poor sweet innocent, when Tom was playing the pianoforte – as if she longed to be rescued. She is caged and cannot get out."</p><p>"Henry" – Mary's voice was almost a growl – "<em>no</em>. Don't you even <em>think</em> like that. Not about <em>her</em>. You cannot change your spots and play the white knight for Fanny Bertram. It is only a dream of yours – a dream you <em>must</em> endure leaving unfulfilled. D'you hear me?"</p><p>"If there was ever a way to get her away from that place honourably–"</p><p>"There is not, and she is far from languishing in a dungeon." Mary pulled back the curtains on her side of the carriage to see how much further they had until they reached the parsonage. "I helped you when it was innocent, and with a good will. I was delighted you thought of her with that necklace and eager she should accept your pretty gift. But you must not betray me by taking it too far now. Really, I could not bear it if–"</p><p>"Peace, Mary, you are right" – he pressed his hand over his mouth and shifted his gaze away from her – "I have done with it."</p><p>She would have rested easier that night if she believed her brother's words as she longed to.</p><hr/><p>Fanny didn't much care that night how drunk her husband was, or the manner in which he stumbled into their bed and immediately slumped into a near-comatose state without a word or the slightest acknowledgement of her presence.</p><p>She desired only consolation from what had been a long, exasperating day, and from having to endure so much from Mr. Crawford. She took one of Tom's limp arms and placed it around her waist and curled her back against his warmth. She ignored the smell – both from the wine and the unfortunate release of flatulence relaxation after intoxication seemed to frequently produce in him. Instead, she listened to his breathing and his incoherent mumbling in his sleep, of which only one word in ten was remotely intelligible, until her own bloodshot eyes could close of their own accord.</p><p>It might have been foolish – as foolish as putting one's hope in a thin fragile pane of glass to protect one from a wild thunderstorm – yet she felt <em>safe </em>with him, even when he was like this.</p><p>"Please don't go away again," she whispered, though she knew he couldn't hear her. Truly, she would not have had the courage if she supposed he <em>could</em>. "<em>Please</em>. Not while the Crawfords stay with Grants. Pray, don't leave me with those people. I don't trust them."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. A Day-Trip, To Sotherton Court</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Twenty-Eight:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>A Day-Trip, To Sotherton Court</em>
</p><p><em>A thick fog had settled over the lawn – it was so dense Tom could barely see the house in the distance – and a man (or, he</em> thought<em> it </em>must<em> be a man, </em>surely<em>, simply because he judged the figure too tall for a woman's and what other option </em>was <em>there?) with a scythe was bent over a few feet away.</em></p><p>
  <em>There was nothing unusual about the scythe, it looked like any other the lawn's grass would regularly be cut by, but Tom failed, even close up, to recognise the man holding it – and here he had known the servant tasked with that duty by sight, the very same man who'd been cutting the grass since he was four years old.</em>
</p><p><em>This clearly wasn't </em>that<em> man.</em></p><p>
  <em>Furthermore, he was puzzled by the figure's strange long robes – one minute black, the next a streaky grey reminiscent of the pitiful colour he sometimes ended up with in his sketchbook if he pushed down too hard without enough charcoal left – in place of the normal labourer's style of clothing.</em>
</p><p>"<em>Oi!"</em></p><p><em>The head turned; he had no face, no eyes, he was all bone and no skin, yet he </em>looked<em> at Tom.</em></p><p><em>"I beg your pardon, but I don't think you</em><em>–</em><em>" </em>I don't think you work here.</p><p>
  <em>The robed figure spoke without a mouth. "I'll be seeing you soon."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tom furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes in annoyance. "Not bloody likely."</em>
</p><p>"<em>Tut-tut." The figure twirled his scythe and </em>tsk<em>ed, sounding not unlike the ticking of that wretched long-case clock Aunt Norris had gifted him. "Best to be on your guard. There's no need to be smug about it. Pride before a fall, what. Your last appointment with me may be far sooner than you imagine."</em></p><p><em>An inexplicably heated and prickly shudder ran through him; he crossed his arms. "Do I </em>know<em> you?"</em></p><p>"Everybody<em> does – eventually."</em></p><p>"<em>Ah."</em></p><p>
  <em>A flick, flick, flick of the bony wrist under the dark sleeve. The scythe swung downwards like a falling guillotine blade, slicing the lower part of his leg when it landed.</em>
</p><p>"<em>Ouch!" Tom swore. He put three fingertips to the wound. They came away bloody.</em></p><p>"<em>Mind you don't neglect your falls, Mr. Bertram."</em></p><p><em>And </em>then<em>–</em></p><hr/><p>Tom awoke with a pounding in his head. He tried to call to mind what he last remembered from the night before, dredged up a vague and hazy estimation of supper with the Crawfords still present and rain still battering the windows, and then found nothing further in the blank recesses of his throbbing skull.</p><p>He moaned and lifted his arm, feeling something small and lumpy and <em>breathing</em> under him.</p><p>"<em>Oh</em>!" – a mussed golden curl sticking up from under the coverlet informed him it was only Fanny.</p><p>Of <em>course</em> – Of course it was his wife, what else would it be? But in his muddled, hungover state – half-remembering he wasn't sure <em>what</em> from his feverish, drunken dreams – he was rather relieved all the same.</p><p>She stirred, pulled her head up from under the covers, and looked at him for a long moment. "Good morning."</p><p>"My <em>head</em>," moaned Tom, blinking to clear the grit clinging to his eyes. "What exactly <em>happened</em> yesterday?"</p><p>"Nothing very remarkable." She blushed and readjusted her pillow. "That is, you injured Mr. Crawford's foot while juggling billiard balls" – and she tried to look sorrier for it than she actually felt – "and you talked in your sleep rather a lot."</p><p>He gave the blankets a sniff and recoiled, gagging. "Merciful heaven, Fanny, did I <em>soil myself </em>at some point?"</p><p>"I-I don't think so," she stammered, though she appeared uncertain.</p><p>"My father saw me intoxicated?" He grimaced, fairly positive he'd never hear the end of it.</p><p>"I don't think he could have failed to notice, especially as you'd already been drinking when he stopped you playing at the pianoforte," she said softly, with a ring of tenderness in her tone, as though she wanted to be truthful yet not too hard on him. "But he didn't say anything."</p><p>Yes, he recalled the pianoforte. He even recalled his father's cool eye on the wineglass he'd left beside the piano-seat, now he thought on it.<em> That</em> – all that – was clear enough in his mind. He was still cross over the whole incident – truly, it had been an innocent enough pleasure, one even his sister-in-law <em>Susan</em> enjoyed, which both his father and Edmund had grossly overreacted to.</p><p>And yet...</p><p>He was silent for a long moment, before throwing himself back onto the pillows and flinging an arm over his face. "Why <em>must</em> I always make such a complete fool of myself?"</p><p>"Tom..."</p><p>He lowered his arm partway. "Did I injure Mr. Crawford very badly?"</p><p>"Oh, <em>no</em>," blurted Fanny. "I do not believe so – he acted as if it were a trifle at best." She cleared her throat. "Indeed, I do not think his suffering was so great as that."</p><p>"My <em>head</em>," he moaned again.</p><p>"Can I do anything?"</p><p>"Mmm, <em>actually</em>... If you could ring for the servants to get me a glass of water..."</p><p>Of course, Fanny – loath to bother anyone, and well aware now of where the best route to the kitchen was in proximity to their chambers – got it herself and put the glass in his hand with a reassuring pat on his tense, splayed white knuckles.</p><p>"I suppose," said he, when he'd downed the glass and forced himself to stand, still trying to gauge where the smell on the blankets came from, "I must go down to the parsonage today and make my apologies to Mr. Crawford."</p><p>She made a little throaty noise of acknowledgement.</p><p>"I'm sure Edmund would wish to come with me, an excuse to see Miss Crawford." He grinned bitterly to himself. "Which is why I'm asking Mr. Yates instead. Or else going by myself."</p><p>"You're still angry with him about the music."</p><p>"He's such a self-righteous prig!" exclaimed Tom.</p><p>"Edmund was only doing what he believed best," Fanny said resolutely. "You cannot fault him for following his inward guide as well as he should."</p><p>"One day all his pretty, perfectly rigid morals are going to fail him, you know." Tom tore off his sweat-plastered shift and began looking for something more fresh to change into. "And then where will he be?"</p><p>"That's rather a terrible thing to say." Fanny put a hand to her brow and pushed back her dishevelled fringe.</p><p>"Well, you would take<em> his</em> side, wouldn't you?"</p><p>"I'm not taking anyone's side, but what can I do? He knew it would displease your father, and he was not mistaken in judging it so."</p><p>"And that makes it all right, does it?"</p><p>She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and said nothing.</p><p>"Forgive me, Fanny." Pulling himself into a pair of questionably clean breeches, he stumbled towards her and chucked her under the chin. "I don't mean to quarrel with you – not like <em>this</em>."</p><p>And, all things considered, they parted amiably that morning after breakfast. Tom was glad of it – for all that he had been playfully trying to pick a quarrel with her, her disconcerting yet unflagging preference for his brother, her tendency to defend Edmund over himself, was not the topic of something he could take so lightly as to toss it aside once it had served his purposes, when they'd made it all up again. It was a thing too raw and fragile to be faced head-on.</p><p>Mr. Crawford did not seem particularly resentful of him for having caused bodily injury the night before, yet there was a lingering coolness Tom could not account for when he visited the parsonage.</p><p>There was nothing so <em>very</em> different in Henry Crawford's manner – and no change at all in Miss Crawford's – but the gentleman was more subdued, as if on the verge of headache or cold.</p><p>Perhaps it was only the sore foot which caused the trace of sourness.</p><p>They talked for merely five minutes about the incident – and both managed to laugh, if not with real merriment – before the subject changed to something else entirely.</p><p>Mr. Crawford wondered if Tom was aware Mr. Rushworth and his sister Maria were to be at Sotherton Court by the week's end. Tom was <em>not</em> aware of this – indeed, he was surprised, knowing Maria's preference both for town and for keeping a distance from her husband and her mother-in-law. Mrs. Rushworth could be somewhat overbearing, by nearly anybody's standards. For Mr. Crawford's benefit, he acted as if it were not so great a surprise, really, though he had not yet been told of it.</p><p>"Mr. Rushworth has long been after me to take a look at Sotherton and help him judge what improvements to the grounds are needed," explained Mr. Crawford. "Indeed, before his marriage to Maria – I think you might still have been in Antigua – he'd meant for us all to go down there as a party – Mary, myself, your sisters, Mrs. Norris... The lot of us. Only it did not quite come together as planned for some reason or other. I don't seem to recall what did the mischief, but there was disappointment on all sides."</p><p>"So, you're thinking now to... <em>What</em>, exactly?" asked Tom. "Have a party of us go down there and meet Maria and Rushworth for a tour and tea?"</p><p>"Precisely that."</p><p>Tom almost asked Mr. Crawford if he thought that <em>wise</em>, given what had transpired between him and Maria in the past, but his common sense alerted him to the danger, in time enough to swallow it back and make it seem as if he were merely clearing his throat; he – as Maria's brother – was not strictly supposed to have <em>noticed</em> the prior flirtation between the pair. If he ever did acknowledge his awareness, to anyone save Maria and Julia themselves, and it became public, technically, he might find himself forced into a duel – if Rushworth refused to take it up – with Crawford. And getting himself killed over his stupid sister's indiscretion was the last thing he wanted.</p><p>"If the Rushworths," Tom said finally, unsure what else he could say, "have no objection, I don't see why the lot of us shouldn't have a merry time exploring Sotherton."</p><p>"Your wife will accompany us?" Henry inquired in a tone which struck Tom as strangely arch, made doubly odd by the look – though it was only a flash, and he thought he might have been mistaken – Mary shot her brother as he spoke.</p><p>"If she wishes it." Tom shrugged. "I'm not in the habit of dragging my wife about to various places against her inclination."</p><p>"No, of course not." Mary touched his arm and smiled. "Henry loves to jest – and can be very silly sometimes."</p><p>Henry's expression to his sister was almost pleading.</p><p>She sighed, then, "Though, I <em>suppose</em>, Mr. Bertram, you will want Fanny to meet Maria – and perhaps if Julia comes Maria will take her back to London with her. We shall miss her society very much should that occur, but Julia does languish so amongst the roughness of the countryside – I hate to see her unhappy."</p><p>Tom was uncertain. He could hardly care less – couldn't give two figs – about Maria meeting Fanny, beyond that it was expected and admittedly overdue, but – save for Mr. Yates' sake – he would not mind ridding himself of Julia, having one less person to please – one less sour face whenever he failed to comprehend some slight or other – about the place.</p><p>"I'll ask her, of course – and if Fanny wishes to come, she shall."</p><p>"Well," said Mary, using all the charm that would have already worked its magic had this been <em>Edmund </em>and not his brother, "<em>do</em> endeavour to persuade her if you <em>can</em>, Mr. Bertram. For her dear company will be deeply missed by us all if it's not to be had."</p><p>And when the question was put to her, later that day, Fanny almost declined to go against her own inclination and desire.</p><p>Although she would be glad of an outing, one further than she could could contrive to ride to on her own – even if she took Shakespeare out very early in the morning – and was curious about meeting Maria as well, it was made known to her from the beginning of the plans that Henry Crawford was the author of this venture; she felt sure he would find some means of making her uncomfortable and believed herself much more comfortably employed at Mansfield – for Crawford could not, for all his many talents, be in <em>two places at once</em>, and if he were at Sotherton, she should be assured of one full day without being surprised by him and forced to endure him. But then she spoke to Edmund – innocently enough, he praised the natural beauty of Sotherton which it had never occurred to Tom to mention, stirring up, however unintentionally, a genuine longing in Fanny's heart to see it. Indeed, she was very sorry the purpose of the visit was in regard to changing what already sounded like perfection itself.</p><p>Yes, she finally agreed, she should like to come – should like to see the place before it was forever altered.</p><hr/><p>Back at the parsonage, earlier, as soon as Mr. Bertram had left them, Mary whirled on her brother. "What are you <em>thinking</em>?"</p><p>"I assure you, my dear sister, my intentions are as innocent and pure as Fanny herself."</p><p>Mary's mouth was a grim line. "But you are plotting <em>something</em> – you cannot hide it from me."</p><p>"Indeed I am," he confessed, running a hand back through his hair, "though it's a harmless scheme. I shall require your help, of course."</p><p>"I wish you could learn to like the ladies who are available to you and spare us walking about on eggshells every moment – it spoils all the fun of having the Bertrams to play with."</p><p>Henry cocked his head and twisted in his seat. "Oh, Mary, all I want is a chance to speak to her alone – on no important subject, you needn't worry of my making any shocking speeches – without fear of her taking off or rebuffing me. If she should see that I am a friend to her, that she can confide in me, I feel<em> certain</em>–"</p><p>Mary began to pace the length of the floor, fluttering her hands. "Henry, Henry... You don't understand the sort of wife Fanny is. If you are forward with her – if you speak <em>directly</em>, even in what another kind of woman would take as only playing, mere harmless flirtation, if she has the slightest reason to suppose her honour at stake – she will go flying to Mr. Bertram with the tale in a heartbeat, believing herself in need of his protection."</p><p>"I'm not an<em> imbecile</em>." Henry rolled his eyes. "Do give me more credit than that."</p><p>"I do give you more credit, when I know you are thinking with your head – where there is Fanny Bertram involved, your thoughts come from another direction altogether."</p><p>"And which direction do you suppose that to be?"</p><p>"It would be trite – even maudlin – to say<em> the heart</em>," said Mary, slowly, "and yet I would not do a beloved brother the disservice of implying<em> the other possible member </em>of his body was doing the thinking for him – I could not be so crass, not to <em>you</em>. You are too dear to me for that. So, pray, draw your own conclusion, unaided by my supposed implications, and let us keep peace between us."</p><p>"<em>All</em> you need to do, and I know you'll be glad to do it," Henry insisted, "is go for a walk with Tom, Edmund, and Fanny about the woods at Sotherton. Fanny shall tire easily, as is her way, before you come to the avenue. There, some suggestion might be made that she should rest. The three of you will contrive to go on without her – persuade Edmund you will be fatigued if you rest, and drag Tom with you by some pretence or other – and I will come and sit beside her for whatever happy hours you spend wandering."</p><p>Mary admitted, with very little leading on her brother's part, she could see no real harm in it. "It <em>would</em> do Fanny some good if she were a <em>little</em> more comfortable about you – if you could make her less jumpy in Tom's presence whenever you walk into a room. Tom might not have noticed yet, but I'm beginning to believe – despite my efforts to convince him he is mistaken – <em>Edmund</em> has, if only in the broadest way."</p><p>"So you will help me, Mary?" His eyes sparkled with hope.</p><p>"Yes, but I <em>swear</em> – if you<em> touch</em> her, Henry" – her countenance darkened – "even in play... And we come back from walk to find her out of sorts... The ruckus which would be kicked up does not bear thinking about. So, your hands must keep to themselves, do you understand me? You must give me your absolute <em>word</em> and shake little fingers with me as we did when we were children."</p><p>Henry lifted his little finger and locked with that of his sister's. "I <em>promise </em>– let that be enough."</p><hr/><p>And all went to Henry Crawford's planning, at the <em>start</em>. Mary strived to do all she promised her brother, so long as he kept <em>his</em> promise in turn, and she soon had left Fanny behind on a bench under the trees as she marched away, one of her arms under Tom's and the other under Edmund's.</p><p>But no sooner had they reached the avenue than Edmund exclaimed, "Such a pity Fanny misses this – she especially wanted to see the avenue."</p><p>Tom blinked at him in amazement. "This is the first<em> I</em> heard of it! When did she say such a thing?"</p><p>"Many times, Tom," sighed Edmund. "She spoke of nothing else to Susan at supper last night. Avenue this, avenue that; she was rhapsodising and quoting Cowper all evening. Poor thing. It is a shame she should miss it, after so much build up; her health–"</p><p>"Then why the deuce did we leave her back there?" exclaimed Tom, waving an arm dramatically at the path behind them. "A jolly mean trick, on my word! And no one told me a thing about it."</p><p>"She was <em>tired</em>, Mr. Bertram," said Mary, realising where this might be going and trying to salvage the plan even yet. "You would not have had her walk all this way when she could scarcely catch her breath, only to see some trees?"</p><p>"No, indeed – to be <em>sure</em> – I would not have had her walk!" He was already beginning to turn. "But she needn't have walked; she might have been <em>carried</em>. And all too willingly." He was moving away from them rapidly. "She still might."</p><p>Oh, <em>bother</em>, thought Mary, as Mr. Bertram disappeared from their sight, poor Henry will be most dreadfully disappointed in a very few minutes.</p><p>But Edmund was there, before her, smiling, waiting to be enjoyed, and she consoled herself with the thought that she'd done her best; her brother would have to make use of what short time she'd managed to give him with Fanny.</p><p>Perhaps Tom would be slow in getting back, or be waylaid. It mightn't be <em>all</em> gloom and doom for poor Henry – it really mightn't.</p><hr/><p>Mr. Crawford had indeed made the most of his time. With a salutation of, "What, Mrs. Bertram all alone? How comes this?" and his most dashing smile, he had sat down beside an admittedly rather lonely Fanny and spoken to her softly, as recompense for initially startling her nearly out of her wits, offering her a pretty purple flower.</p><p>He claimed to have picked this flower on his walk though such seemed impossible given it was clearly of a hothouse variety and no purple flowers remotely like it grew in the Sotherton Court gardens or woods.</p><p>She accepted it stiffly, taking the stem between two trembling fingertips, as there was no way she could see to refusing so small an offering without causing offence, and placing the flower in her lap before turning her head away, looking desperately to the place where she'd last seen the others.</p><p>Someone must come back for her – someone surely <em>must</em>.</p><p>"And how did you like your eldest sister-in-law?"</p><p>Fanny's shoulders tensed, then sagged. No one was coming. She was forgotten. She must resign herself to having only Henry Crawford's company for now, to answering him as amiably as she was able. "I think Maria very beautiful."</p><p>"That she is, though it's nothing whatever to <em>your</em> disservice." He cleared his throat to rid it of the excessive tenderness he was in danger of showing. "You all come of such a fine-looking stock, to be sure. Your mother is aunt to Mrs. James Rushworth and Miss Bertram, is she not?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"You might all be three sisters in a fairy-tale, golden-haired and light-eyed – the youngest is always the most beautiful, kind, and pure of heart in those stories, you know. She is the one the prince wants to win."</p><p>"Yes, to be sure." Fanny swallowed, feeling as though she were trying to force broken shards of glass down her throat. She was longing to believe he did not mean what she knew he must. Thank heavens it all amounted to nothing – that he could never<em> really</em>... Part of her was inclined, nearly, to point out <em>Susan</em> was younger than herself, and as light-eyed and blonde as any of them, but she would not have set her beloved sister into Henry's evidently insatiable notice willingly – not if you offered her the <em>world</em>.</p><p>He spoke on the subject of the beauty of the day for some moments more, before acknowledging a chill and remarking she had her beaded, mustard-coloured shawl rather low about her arms. He then made some motion to pull it up for her, but she demurred, saying she liked it as it was.</p><p>"I am not cold, but I thank you."</p><p>He turned on the bench, eager even for a moment to dispense with formality, "<em>Fanny</em>–"</p><p>Before she could be scandalised by his addressing her thus, before she could even be properly frightened, they were interrupted by Tom's halloing as he approached them from the path.</p><p>Fanny was so inexpressibly happy to see him she started to rise automatically from the bench, obliging Mr. Crawford to give her a bit more room as she rose, only to sink back down with a strangled yelp when her still tired legs protested in jabbing pains and an overpowering weariness about the calves and ankles.</p><p>"Ah! I've got back to you at last. We'd only just reached the avenue," said Tom, catching his breath, "when Edmund mentioned you'd wanted to see it."</p><p>"I <em>had</em>, but–"</p><p>And Fanny was immediately swept off her feet, lifted up into Tom's strong arms. "Come, wife, if you will but put your arms about my neck, I shall <em>carry</em> you the rest of the way – we'll have quite missed whatever nonsense Edmund and Mary are blathering on about, as they'll be well beyond the avenue themselves by now, but I daresay we don't need <em>them</em>!"</p><p>With a tightening of the chest and a heavy disappointment, Henry watched them go, then – once they were long out of sight – bent down to pick up the purple flower which Fanny had let fall unheeded from her lap when she first attempted to stand and greet her husband.</p><p>He meant not to follow them, truly, but despite himself ended up walking forlornly in that very direction, wondering if he would run into the pair when he reached the avenue.</p><p>He imagined them discussing botany and Tom Bertram – being something of a dunderhead – not realising that, yes, every one of those 'green things' did in fact have a name of its own.</p><p>Whether it was to his relief or else disappointment, Henry couldn't say, but he began to believe he'd missed them, that they'd gotten quite the start and he would not have an encounter, when he came to walk among the trees – the trees he was meant to survey and give his opinion on the cutting down of – and saw no signs of anyone about.</p><p>Until, that was, he discovered Fanny's bonnet on the ground beside one of the more inward-facing trees.</p><p>Then, bending to pick it up, he heard a series of soft moans from the same general direction, and a light but somewhat guttural grunt that sounded like Mr. Bertram, following by Fanny's soft murmur.</p><p>"Tom... Oh, <em>Tom</em>..."</p><p>And had Henry the tiniest iota of self-awareness, just enough to see what he wished not to for reasons of his own, to put aside the inclinations of his heart, he might have realised then he was <em>not</em> the hero of the situation at all – not the failed rescuer he fancied himself to be – but fully the opposite.</p><p>Instead, as he sadly set her bonnet back on the ground where he'd found it and – disposing of the purple flower in the taller grass – soundlessly made off in the other direction, he pitied her and felt sorrier still for himself.</p><hr/><p>"Well, Fanny," simpered Mrs. Norris, as they were arranging the carriages to take them home to Mansfield Park again, "this has been a fine day for you, upon my word – nothing but pleasure from beginning to end!"</p><p>"Indeed, ma'am." And Fanny could not help going dramatically scarlet, for it had turned out to be just that, despite a shaky, unhappy start, born first of suspecting Maria Rushworth did not like her – did not care a fig whether she was here or not, dead or alive, and wished her brother had not brought her along – then added to by having Mr. Crawford's company thrust upon her while she rested, utterly abandoned, left to her fate by both Bertram brothers and Mary Crawford.</p><p>But from the moment Tom had come back from the avenue and carried her off to see it, she had been in raptures of unlooked-for delight. Nothing was too good for her all the rest of the day.</p><p>Perhaps because he was sorry for Mary and Edmund's seeming neglect of her, unable – in his usual way – to see it was a smaller neglect than some he himself inflicted on her in the past, to wholly distinguish between the selfishness of others and his own, Tom had become most devoted to promoting her happiness.</p><p>He'd kissed and caressed and – as they'd both gotten rather carried away in the pleasure of the moment, swelling gratitude on Fanny's part leaving her in state in which she might refuse him next to nothing – done some small manner of things beyond that as well with her under the canopy of those beautiful trees which stood a bad chance of being long for this world, all the while murmuring how dear she was to him, how beloved.</p><p>And when they sank together into the loam and grass, she'd laid very still with her eyes half closed while he teased her by plucking a little leaf, slipping it down the front of her dress, and tickling the space between her heaving breasts with it.</p><p>"Poor Fanny – my poor, breathless Fanny," he'd whispered, leaning beside her, propping up on his elbows, when he'd stopped and she'd opened her eyes again. He twirled the leaf's stem with his fingers. "You're so wound up. Do I sport with you too often? Am I too terrible?"</p><p>She'd regarded him, then, from the corner of her eye, peering up from under her eyelashes. "You're like a cat with a mouse."</p><p>And he had laughed so heartily at her quip – the sweetest, soberest laugh she'd ever heard from him; it was a laugh so pure and reassuring, Fanny truly felt she might live off the sound of that sweet burst of unsullied merriment for <em>years</em>.</p><p>When they'd returned to the group, they were clinging giddily to each other, arm-in-arm, and Fanny had a wreath of daisies Tom had strung together in her hair, pinned to her plaits like a white-petal tiara, in place of her bonnet, which hung loosely by its ribbons from her opposite hand.</p><p>Mrs. Norris might not have cared overmuch about this, save that – by such dramatic comparison – the manner between Mr. Rushworth and Maria looked so much the worse.</p><p>Maria couldn't stand to be near Mr. Rushworth, or touch him affectionately without due cause, while Fanny and Tom never ceased to touch – to make some small contact – in one way or another. There was such a great deal of easy affection between them. And Rushworth had been <em>her</em> choice, the match <em>her</em> doing; Mrs. Norris could not bear that it should not look well, should not stand out as the perfect union of the two.</p><p>Fanny had <em>no business</em> looking happier with her husband than Maria did with hers.</p><p>So the conclusion – the only one Mrs. Norris could live with – was simply <em>this</em>: Maria was proper with her husband, while Fanny behaved like the wild, ill-trained thing from Portsmouth she was and Tom, being only a man, refused to rein her in.</p><p>And when Mr. Rushworth's mother – who, by some oversight or other, had not been properly introduced to Fanny when the party arrived – remarked how she had supposed the girl to be only a visiting relation to the Bertrams and wondered in astonishment at Tom's being so overly familiar with her – was it <em>quite all right</em> for him to behave so very <em>tactile</em> in manner with that girl? she'd mused worriedly – Mrs. Norris was convinced she had the right of it.</p><p>She felt certain if Tom and Fanny had acted as a decent husband and wife ought in public their connection to each other would have been obvious. She did not consider, for it was not her way to consider such rational things, how Tom's not having a wedding ring while Fanny very visibly <em>did</em> likely contributed more to the mix-up than anything the couple had done.</p><p>"I was," she said, climbing into the carriage and sitting across from Fanny and Tom and a subdued Mr. Yates (they had left Julia behind them and she would not be returning to Mansfield for the foreseeable future, which accounted for his being Friday-faced), "quite appalled by the state of your formerly fine silk stockings when you came back from your walk – I <em>so</em> hope that Mr. Rushworth's mother was spared noticing that – and you seem to have some dirt or stain, or something very like, on the side of your neck. Tom, why did you not make <em>certain</em> your wife cleaned up before you both took tea with us?"</p><p>Tom coughed and his shaking shoulders gave away his amusement despite his best efforts. "Right. Eh. It's... It's not <em>dirt</em>, Aunt Norris."</p><p>Mr. Yates, with one coy glance in their direction, broke down into a volley of what could only be described as tittering <em>giggles</em>, slapping his knee and wiping away tears of mirth while Mrs. Norris glared her disapproval.</p><p>And, a great deal of embarrassment aside, Fanny thought she had never been fonder of her husband's companion than she was in that very moment. <em>Dearest Mr. Yates!</em></p><hr/><p>The following morning, Mrs. Norris saw her opportunity to attempt to set matters right.</p><p>She felt she must look to Sir Thomas to straighten the pair out before any further damage to the family's reputation might be done – before they should risk marring poor Maria, despite her high-standing as Mrs. Rushworth – and found herself at a breakfast table which lent itself to open conversation with her brother-in-law.</p><p>Fanny was not present. Due, perhaps, to having taken too much sun at Sotherton Court, she was suffering from one of her more vicious headaches and disinclined to eat anything at the moment. Susan was upstairs nursing the bedridden Mrs. Bertram, and Tom – in lieu of taking breakfast himself – had decided to go for a morning ride with Mr. Yates, who'd cheerfully volunteered to exercise Fanny's horse.</p><p><em>Edmund</em> was at the table, and watching her warily, but Mrs. Norris did not think twice of speaking her mind regarding this matter in front of <em>him</em>. Where she thought of Edmund's opinion at all, though it was only in the smallest degree, she naturally assumed her nephew – being a parson – would be inclined to share the one she herself held: Fanny and Tom must be made to behave with more propriety, for all their sakes.</p><p>To her horror, however, Edmund not only voiced disagreement with her view, he also <em>defended</em> them. "Aunt Norris, I may not always agree with the manner in which Tom conducts himself, but as he has Fanny's infallible good judgement to guide him – provided he doesn't take off again, now the racing season has come around – I cannot see him as doing anything unseemly." Casting a glance over to his father, he added, "Sir, I've never witnessed Tom go out of his way to be so agreeable as he was during tea at Sotherton yesterday to <em>anyone</em>. It was all Fanny's good influence. There's no other explanation for it."</p><p>Mrs. Norris sucked her teeth and tightened her grasp on the butter-knife she held. "I do not deny Tom's manners were exceptionally good, overall, yesterday – I find him more than tolerably improved from what he was but five years ago. He was a proper credit to yourself, Sir Thomas, in that regard. But as to it being <em>Fanny's</em> doing!" She gave a little laugh of disbelief. "Well! Indeed, I should say not! That is the furthest thing from what I saw. Why, he couldn't manage to rein her in one bit, for all his pretty manners! She soiled her stockings like an ill-bred <em>child</em> – she returned to the house for tea <em>without a bonnet on</em>! Her hair was half-down like a ragamuffin. She was looking quite rumpled indeed, if I do say so."</p><p>Sir Thomas made longer work of cutting his sausage and spearing at his eggs than he strictly needed to, attempting – it would seem – to give himself time to decide whether or not it was worth it to point out to Mrs. Norris a girl did not venture into a wooded avenue alone with a man and discombobulate <em>herself</em>.</p><p>It took two partners to dance, as the old saying went.</p><p>"I simply say," Mrs. Norris pressed on, taking the silence for encouragement, "something must be done. Fanny carrying on with Tom as she has been, before the marriage is widely known in public... Mrs. Rushworth was quite scandalised... Tongues will wag. Depend upon it, Fanny will get herself into a delicate state – as I've often feared and remarked upon – and the good name of your family will be at stake while people slyly count back on their fingers. Something must be <em>done</em>. We are not <em>yet</em> free from the chance of there being a true and proper scandal."</p><p>Sir Thomas' mouth twisted and he blinked pensively. "D'you know what, my dear Mrs. Norris? You're absolutely right."</p><p>Mrs. Norris straightened, clearly pleased with herself, and Edmund tensed, his jawline tightening. "Father, I really don't think–"</p><p>"You may wish to <em>hear</em> my suggestion for handling this matter before you decide you disagree with it, Edmund."</p><p>"Yes, Father." He lowered his head respectfully, staring down at his plate.</p><p>"Indeed, Edmund," said Mrs. Norris, all but <em>preening</em>, her countenance one of glowing relief and satisfaction, counting her chickens well before they were hatched. "Your father knows best."</p><p>"We must have <em>a ball</em>," Sir Thomas declared. "Here at Mansfield. For Tom and Fanny in name – a belated celebration for their marriage – but in actuality all for Fanny's sake, so everyone who matters can see her and know she is a Bertram now. There can be no whisper of scandal, not if half the county has seen Mrs. Bertram at a ball and knows her to be Tom's wife." Struggling against a smile at the widening eyes of Mrs. Norris, he added, "Then Fanny can comfortably get into as many delicate states as she sees fit and you, dear lady, won't have to work yourself into an ulcer over it. Naturally, I would have greatly <em>preferred</em> Tom wait to sire an heir under this roof – you know very well I had every intention of preventing it when he first brought Fanny here – but <em>c'est la vie</em>. I wash my hands of <em>that</em>. I know when a cause is lost."</p><p>"I think a ball is a wonderful idea." Edmund <em>beamed</em>. He was no doubt already imagining himself persuading Mary Crawford to dance with a clergyman against her general – and formerly very vocally expressed – inclinations. For the one night, surely, she would set aside her silly, prejudiced view on men of the cloth – for the sake of them all looking well at Fanny's ball. "I suppose we might invite the Grants and Crawfords?"</p><p>A guest list was cheerfully discussed, then, between father and son, and Mrs. Norris' face changed from a outright rosy hue to what was very nearly a sour-apple green.</p><p>A fancy ball for Fanny – a lavish party for an indigent niece who'd entrapped Tom into marriage and been nothing but trouble since – was <em>not</em> what she'd had in mind when she brought up the subject.</p>
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<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Picnics, Such As May Precede Grand Balls</h2></a>
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    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Twenty-Nine:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Picnics, Such As May Precede Grand Balls</em>
</p><p>Fanny was not half so pleased as Edmund when she was told there was to be a ball held at Mansfield in her honour. No amount of cheerful coaxing from Edmund, her father-in-law, or Susan could convince her it was her due, something to be enjoyed rather than merely endured.</p><p>She was clever enough to ascertain this would be nothing at all like the balls held at Portsmouth, and her inclination was to shrink from the horror of being looked at by several important persons rather than hope for it with all the delights of expectation.</p><p>Would her happiness have been greatened – buoyed by optimism – if her cousin and sister-in-law, Maria Rushworth, the dark spot on that otherwise bright day at Sotherton, had shown the slightest liking for her, if she had even been something like tolerant in the way Julia was when Tom brought her to Mansfield from London?</p><p>
  <em>Possibly.</em>
</p><p>And possibly, also, if she were not told from the start – by Edmund, who believed he was giving only the best news – the Crawfords would not be forgotten when the invitations went out.</p><p>Poor Fanny could envision only misery for herself.</p><p>The other girls her age – married or unmarried – would no doubt all be finer than herself and think her not worth talking to if she were not on Tom Bertram's arm; the Crawfords would cause some mischief, which would never give her a moment free of agitation.</p><p>She never could work out to her satisfaction what they thought they were doing.</p><p>Henry Crawford sported with her, obviously, but to what end? What could he possibly imagine his eventual reward for such behaviour to be? Did he truly think she would – or even <em>could</em> – reciprocate his attentions in even the smallest measure? And <em>Mary</em>! What was<em> she</em> about? How could she have refused Edmund – long before Fanny even was thought of by any of them – and yet even now linger about so, keeping him – perhaps holding onto some vain hope she might, given enough patience and affection, change her mind and make him happy – from returning to Thornton Lacey as he ought.</p><p>Fanny would miss him, deeply, if he left them, but her dearest cousin – that dearly beloved brother-in-law – would be safe from the likes of <em>her</em> – safe from the cruelly pulled strings of someone who did not deserve him.</p><p>Tom was selfish, Fanny's even yet still daily growing love for her husband did not conceal that fact from her consciousness, not for the tiniest moment, but his selfishness knew no malice. She knew, as much as anyone <em>can</em> know, what she'd married. He was the cat who might, in play, very easily torment a mouse forever, keeping it up at least until the mouse fainted from exhaustion or fright, a conclusion which would leave him honestly astonished; he was the manner of cat that would smack a mouse upside the head with the pad of its paws should the creature stop reacting, cease even for the slightest second to amuse him. Because of course the mouse lived for his amusement. <em>Of course</em> it did. What Tom was <em>not </em>was the sort of creature, the cunning and hungry manner of cat, which would rip the mouse – once caught – open and devour its insides while it yet screamed for mercy; <em>that</em> was what Fanny saw in Henry and Mary both, behind the smiles even<em> they</em> believed were so real and generous, and it made her cold down to the very bone to think of.</p><p>What manner of being is it that does know know its own nature, its own power over others smaller or lesser than itself, or – <em>worse</em> – knows it at a glance, casually, and yet is not once shrinking back from the mirror in terror, in reverence of its own power?</p><p>Such, Fanny believed, was the beginning of a true monster.</p><p>Yet she herself could not run – could not shrink back – from being introduced to society <em>sometime</em> – she must be looked at by those who were both Bertram and Crawford in nature – and she longed to keep the suffering to a minimum.</p><p>She had the idea of having the ball changed into something less formal – an outdoor picnic, where there might still be dancing and merriment and important visitors, but where nature could be all about to comfort her as the gilding and vaulted ceilings of a ballroom never could.</p><p>Sir Thomas – with a refrain of, "A <em>picnic</em>? Well, well. A picnic, d'you say, child?" – thought it <em>such</em> a good idea, however, that it rather backfired on Fanny more than otherwise.</p><p>He settled it that there must be a picnic the afternoon of the day before the ball, a kind of causal prelude to the real introduction of Mrs. Bertram to all their friends as well as an extra source of felicity for the young people.</p><p>Fanny fervently wished she had never mentioned the idea – wished she had never thought of it, either.</p><p>Mrs. Norris wished so also, complaining of everything from the added expense, to the alleged vulgarity such informality showed, to the doubtless noncompliant weather they were sure to have.</p><p>Susan, who overheard the complaint regarding the last, made a small snappish remark about how neither Fanny nor Sir Thomas – who were both being blamed for the inconvenience in turns by an especially erratic Aunt Norris – could control <em>if it rained or shined, or was too hot or cold</em>, for pity's sake, not unless they'd been keeping secrets.</p><p>Mrs. Norris called her impertinent, but she stopped complaining for nearly an hour, too angry to say anything more, a reprieve for which everybody was exceedingly grateful.</p><p>Even Lady Bertram sighed, when her sister had returned to the White House in a fit of fury, "I am most obliged, dearest Susie, for what you said today – my sister means well, and I don't say you should not respect her, but she does <em>bray on</em> so very heartily when she gets into a temper and my nerves do not <em>like</em> it."</p><p>When it came to what Fanny would wear, she shocked everybody by announcing she did not want a new dress made up for the occasion.</p><p>Mary Crawford, who was visiting them in the drawing-room when the discussion came up, nearly fell into a swoon out of sheer horror. Mrs. Bertram not wear a new ballgown to her first real ball in proper society? Was the girl <em>mad</em>?</p><p>"Oh,<em> Fanny</em>," she'd cried, with more real, ardent feeling than strictly did her credit. "You cannot <em>mean</em> it!"</p><p>Sir Thomas, misunderstanding, concluded Mrs. Norris' fussing over the expense had gotten to the tender sensitivities of his daughter-in-law, which showed her to be a very good girl indeed, to be sure... But she must have <em>something</em> made up for the occasion – it was not a thing which might be skimped on. "You must remember it is to be your night, my dear."</p><p>"Then," said Fanny, glancing about them all, "may I not have my own way?"</p><p>Sir Thomas' brow furrowed. "Certainly not – I wouldn't have the wife of a future baronet – my own daughter-in-law – appear shabby."</p><p>"That is," she pressed on, dropping her gaze, "I already have a dress I should very much like to wear – it means a great deal to me – and I would only ask for some trimming... And... I wish to add to the back, the train, a bit... I would do the alterations myself..."</p><p>"Oh." Sir Thomas blinked. "That <em>is</em> rather different. If you had your heart set especially on a particular dress which is already in your possession. I can see nothing wrong with it – if that's truly what you desire. As long as you think you can make it properly presentable, remembering who will be there, there can be nothing amiss."</p><p>"Indeed there shan't be," said Lady Bertram, from her place on the sofa, giving Pug a little squeeze. "Fanny's stitches are very delicate. So small and neat. She sews such pretty cushions. She does her needlework quite economically, too. I do not think she will ruin or waste any trimming she is given. And I shall send Chapman to dress her the night of the ball."</p><p>And, with this, Fanny contented and comforted herself. It was a small victory, but precisely that – a <em>victory</em> – all the same.</p><hr/><p>"Mary?" Henry Crawford looked up from the <em>London Gazette</em> and snapped his fingers delicately to get his sister's attention.</p><p>She had been at the window, thinking about her own dress for Fanny's ball, also in the back of her mind debating if she would practice her harp or go out in search of some amusement, when her brother signalled to her. "Hmm, yes, Henry?"</p><p>"That brother of Mrs. Bertram's – the one she loves so dearly and never ceases to mention near daily." He sighed at her blank expression. "You <em>know</em>, the one who's a sailor. What was his name? <em>William Price</em>, if I'm not mistaken?"</p><p>"Yes, I believe that is him."</p><p>He tucked the <em>London Gazette</em> away into a leather satchel. "Good, good. I shall be leaving Mansfield for a few days – you'll be so busy with all your planning, I daresay I'll scarcely be missed even by a sister so doting as yourself – but I'll be back in time for Mrs. Bertram's ball."</p><p>"No, indeed." Mary rolled her eyes. "You would not miss that."</p><p>"Indeed not, for I plan to dance with sweet Mrs. Bertram – not for the world would I give up my opportunity to do <em>that</em> – I may even get to open the ball with her, if fortune proves kind – proves willing to smile upon me."</p><p>"<em>Henry</em>," said Mary, slowly, her voice affectionate but laced with caution, "I think <em>Mr. Bertram</em> will want to open the dancing with his wife, don't you?"</p><p>He waved that off. "It cannot matter to him – he, lucky devil, who has her company every day – whether he dances with her first or last, can it?"</p><p>Mary thought it could, and that Henry was pushing things a bit far, Tom Bertram not being dim enough he could fail to notice another man opening the dancing with his wife in front of half the county, but she only replied, "And the <em>picnic</em>, you'll be back in time for that as well?"</p><p>"Mmm,<em> there</em> I can make no promise." He did sound mildly regretful. "I may be too late for it. You'll have to make do with Edmund Bertram to keep you entertained that afternoon, sweet sister."</p><p>"What are you up to?" Her brow lifted; curiosity burned within her so intensely she could not even worry as much as she felt she otherwise should. She had never seen her brother in love before, and his resulting behaviour stunned and dazzled her, with its near-endless intrigue, as much as it startled her.</p><p>"I can't <em>tell</em>. Not at present. Not even you." He smirked, rose from his place, and – coming to the window – tweaked his sister's nose between his thumb and middle finger. "It's a surprise."</p><hr/><p>The night before the picnic, Tom also had a surprise – one he expected would delight Fanny, yet seemed only to make her grow oddly quiet when he presented it to her. "Fanny, I've had your chain – the one I broke – fixed for you."</p><p>They were in his sitting room by the fire, and although she had not been the least bit cold before he spoke, she shivered rather heartily, then, and pulled her shawl tighter about herself.</p><p>Tom, surprised but unshaken, barrelled ahead, drawing the necklace with the fixed clasp from his waistcoat pocket and holding it out to her. "I don't know much about women's taste in jewellery, but it seemed fancier than the one my brother gave you, so I thought you might want to wear it to our ball."</p><p>"What can I <em>say</em>?" murmured Fanny, more as if she were anxiously asking herself than addressing the question to her bemused husband.</p><p>"Eh... That is, you might..." He broke off, laughing. "Fanny, you are such a <em>funny little thing</em> sometimes! You kissed me as if you couldn't bear to stop when I snapped the blasted necklace off your neck, yet – <em>now</em> – when I have it repaired for you..." He shook his head. "You act as if I've given you news of a death in the family. Perhaps I simply understand nothing about women, is that it?"</p><p>"Forgive me for being ungrateful." Lord, if only he <em>knew</em>. If only she dared tell him – dared explain. He could not think less of her, surely, for being loath to wear another man's necklace, regardless of the fact that the giver had technically been the gentleman's sister rather than the gentleman himself. Oh, it was foolish – dreadfully foolish – to want to <em>cry</em>, and yet she did.</p><p>She wished she'd hidden it after its being broken; she wished she'd thrown it out the window and a bird had carried it off; she <em>wished</em>–</p><p>"I don't think you ungrateful," he said. "I think you're many things. Most of which confuse me and I expect I'll never puzzle out. But I don't think you're the least ungrateful. I think I could very well hand you...Christ, I don't know...a mackerel...and you'd tell me what a thoughtful gesture it was."</p><p>"A <em>mackerel</em>?" gasped Fanny, leaning forward in her seat, nearly doubled over.</p><p>"I<em> said</em> I didn't know!" he cried, still laughing. Then, with a melancholic sigh, "If I'd given you a mackerel instead of that chain restored, would you have kissed me?"</p><p>"I'll kiss you <em>without</em> a mackerel," she said tenderly, her eyes softening as they gazed at his furrowed face in the firelight. "If you'll come closer to my chair and swoop down very sweetly so I can reach you."</p><hr/><p>The picnic proved a greater source of felicity, on the whole, to Fanny than she anticipated.</p><p>Her dress was one of her newer ones but it was casual for the occasion and even Mary did not seem to mind that she was wearing Edmund's simple chain for her cross, no-doubt expecting (if she knew what Tom had done) her brother's more lavish necklace to be saved for the ball.</p><p>Eyes were on her, yet Fanny felt more curiosity than judgement from the young persons who sat down beside their hampers on the lawn to sip champagne and be merry; they did not, particularly the young men, seem to care over-much where Tom Bertram's wife had come from and were simply glad of the excuse to sit out of doors on a fine day.</p><p>She was introduced to Charles Maddox who declared her, "Yes, very pretty, as you've told us, Tom," before asking if someone might top off his glass and remarking on the commendable lack of goose-droppings on the lawn. He evidently had a relation who attended picnics frequently, weather permitting, and – per him – one always had to be very care of goose-droppings. Picnic scenes, he insisted, always looked quite well from a distance, only for there to be unpleasantness up close, but Mansfield was as pretty close up as far away. "Not unlike your wife. Proper diamond of the first water, as you like to say."</p><p>Fanny blushed crimson from chin to hairline, though she was not distressed. Mr. Maddox was not like Henry Crawford; his appraising, admiring looks lasted no longer than they ought and one got the reassuring impression that while he was glad enough for his companion's good fortune he should not particularly like to be married to Fanny himself.</p><p>Indeed, Mr. Crawford's absence was another source of happiness granted her on this bright day, proving to be far more<em> hers </em>than her alleged night of triumph would likely be. She did not expect Henry to miss the ball, but she relished his absence from this prelude, basking in the freedom of not glancing over her shoulder always to see him watching her, eyes fixed and expression drawn, and could not make herself look properly sorry when Miss Crawford and Mrs. Grant gave ready apologies for his being away. Fanny barely succeeded in biting back a smile and managed to look politely sombre. Tom seemed far sorrier about it than his wife, disappointed in his vague, selfish way of <em>any</em> possible jolly companion being unavailable for his amusement on such a day as this.</p><p>Julia and Maria came from Sotherton, and – at first seeing Mrs. Rushworth again – Fanny's joy was temporarily marred. She <em>wanted</em> to like her pretty cousin, and to earn her good opinion in return, for her own sake as much as for Tom and Edmund's, but the cold look behind the eyes she'd encountered during their first meeting had not thawed in the slightest.</p><p>If anything, Maria's eyes were only icier still.</p><p>True, their initial meeting had been so unremarkable it was nothing worth recounting, nothing so very shocking nor dramatic, little more than one of life's dull footnotes at best, and yet it had stung Fanny down to the very soul.</p><p>And it was not until she saw her arriving with Julia and Mr. Rushworth for the picnic that Fanny realised where she knew the expression on Maria's face from; it was a look of settled, unwavering offence.</p><p>It was a look that said, plainly, I will not you – I am <em>determined</em> not to like you – the same look Fanny herself had so often reserved for Henry Crawford.</p><p>Why Maria should be so absolutely set against her, Fanny could not begin to imagine. To be sure, Maria was not<em> pleasant</em> to <em>Tom</em>, exactly, but she was notably more <em>civil</em>, and she waited, quite pointedly, until both her brothers' backs were turned before shooting her pale, fluttery-handed sister-in-law a look of pure withering scorn.</p><p>Clearly, she knew what she was about.</p><p>Susan was visibly disgusted by her cousin's behaviour, and if she'd heard Maria did not care for her husband she would have thought a poor marriage no less than the cruel snobbish wretch deserved, but Fanny refused to show emotion – to reveal her disappointment. There was something deeper here, to be sure, which she could not quite put her finger upon.</p><p>Julia, buoyed by their previous acquaintance with each other, was better – both to Tom and to herself.</p><p>"And here I'd foolishly supposed," said Tom, upon seeing her arrive, "we'd just gotten <em>rid </em>of <em>you</em>," but he was smiling – with glinting, playful eyes – and received an actually sweet sisterly kiss on the cheek in return for his quip.</p><p>Julia seemed very happy to see Susan and Mary – if not strictly Fanny – again and perhaps she really <em>was</em>.</p><p>Mr. Yates was unreservedly ecstatic – wholly over the moon with jubilation – to see 'lovely Miss Bertram' again, even after so short a separation, and his contagious joy put them all in good spirits with one another, making for a joyous reunion, as if they were one great big group of friends meeting again at last.</p><p>There were games after the eating was finished, which Maria did not join in though Julia did, including a game of blind man's bluff, during which a blind-folded Edmund caught Fanny – the only one not quick enough to dodge the parson's outreached arm – and – mistaking his sister-in-law for Miss Crawford – lost the game by incorrectly identifying her as such.</p><p>Mary thought this hilarious and could not stop laughing about it, teasing Edmund mercilessly, for nearly a quarter of an hour. "You were <em>mistaken</em>, Mr. Bertram," said she, chortling into her champagne, "quite vastly mistaken. Why, I think even <em>Henry</em> would have known it was <em>Mrs. Bertram </em>he'd caught in your place rather than myself!"</p><p>Sometime after, when the sun was lower and hotter, Fanny felt the urge to relieve herself and slipped away from the lawn, closer to the woods, so she might go among the trees. Only, she became rather self-conscious that the place she'd chosen was not far enough from the guests and someone would see Mrs. Bertram, the very lady in whose honour this fancy picnic was being held, squatting by a tree with her skirts hiked up past her knees.</p><p>No, she decided with an anxious little shudder. This would not do.</p><p>And she ventured a little further, then a little further still, trying to come upon a place which seemed secluded, a place free from any wandering guests.</p><p>She nearly tripped over Julia, who she'd thought – wrongly, it would seem – was yet with the others on the lawn.</p><p>"<em>Shh</em>! Be <em>quiet</em> Fanny – don't give me away," her cousin hissed, yanking her downwards and forcing her to crouch, winding her before she could yelp. "They will hear you."</p><p>"But <em>what</em>–" began Fanny, in a low, breathless whisper, before Julia cut her off with a soft little huff of frustration.</p><p>"Some of the gentlemen have sneaked off to go swimming." She gestured past their hiding place towards the pond with her chin.</p><p>"<em>Oh</em>." Fanny saw for herself now, though she was not sure only three men stripping down to their skivvies by the water's edge – Mr. Maddox, Tom, and Mr. Yates – strictly qualified as 'some of the gentlemen' in the way Julia spoke – she'd said it as if she meant a full quarter of the picnic's guests.</p><p>It appeared Julia's keen interest in watching them was to get a good look at Mr. Yates in a state of near undress – she did not care what <em>Maddox</em> did, and she softly groaned, "Oh, for mercy's sake, <em>must</em> you stand in the way, Tom? Why won't you move your posterior out of my view! We all know what <em>you</em> look like!" under her breath when her brother blocked their line of vision. "Bother, Mr. Yates has stepped too far to the left again! All I can see beyond Tom is that silly Mr. Maddox flexing his arms – waving them up and down spastically – like he's a water fowl about to take flight!"</p><p>Fanny, though, was rather enjoying the view at that moment, her embarrassment at being forced to spy giving way to genuine interest in what she was seeing, and entirely missed what Julia snapped to her after the initial comment about Tom's posterior, completely unaware anything more was even <em>said</em> until her cousin pinched her arm impatiently and yanked her further back.</p><p>"Julia? <em>Fanny</em>?" exclaimed a concerned voice behind them. "What are you both doing on the ground all the way out here? Are you hurt?"</p><p>Fanny, startled, let out a sharp <em>squeak</em> of distress and, losing her balance, tumbled forward. She went rolling head-first out of the bracken, through some brambles, and down into the clearing by the pond, coming to an abrupt stop flat on her back in front of Tom, who stared down at her with a single eyebrow arched.</p><p>"Oh, well <em>done</em>, Edmund!" snapped Julia, glaring over her shoulder at her other brother, who blinked helplessly after Fanny with an expression of utter confusion on his face.</p><p>Fanny gave her husband a weak smile. "Hello."</p><p>Tom offered her his hands and, bending over, raised her back onto her feet. "You simply can't get enough of me, can you, creepmouse?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. A Ball, Not As One Would Best Like</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em> </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Thirty:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>A Ball, Not As One Would Best Like</em>
</p><p>The following morning, among whatever last-minute provisions were being brought in for the ball that night, the servants also delivered a box to Tom and Fanny's sitting room (Tom was still wearing his nightcap, complaining of a cold head) – at the sight of which Tom's eyes lit up with pleasurable recognition.</p><p>He opened the box and drew out its contents. "Come, Fanny, look at this."</p><p>It was a pocket pistol, new and sleek and decorated with an elegant finishing of silver filigree.</p><p>Fanny came over and smiled admiringly. She was not particularly fond of guns, nor did she possess any real interest in shooting, but the pleasure on Tom's face made it a source of felicity by mere association. Nothing which had brought such total contentment to her husband's countenance, which excited him so obviously and innocently, could be anything but a friend to Fanny Bertram.</p><p>He held it out to her by the handsomely curved handle, so she might take it. "Feel the <em>weight</em>, it's like a <em>feather</em>."</p><p>Fanny disagreed; she thought it quite heavy herself, felt its pull on her wrist the moment Tom loosened his grasp, but she knew his hand and hers were quite different things, and so she only said, "Yes, how very <em>fine</em> it must be!"</p><p>"Indeed." He was gratified by her response. "Perhaps, sometime, though only if you'd like, I will show you how to fire it. I can't see the harm in your knowing a useful thing like that."</p><p>Fanny giggled, "Am I to fight in a duel?" The image, unbidden, of defending her own honour against Henry Crawford popped into her mind and she flushed – her cheeks heating to roaring fireplace levels of hot – just thinking about it.</p><p>Nonsense, though, really.</p><p>"God, I <em>hope</em> not," Tom said with an affected shiver. "Duels are nothing but a bloody mess over a lot of stupidity and indiscretion, if you ask me. A person would do better to <em>ignore</em> an offence, and jolly well move on with their ridiculous little lives, than to start up a thing like that!"</p><p>Well, in that case, she might be on her own when it came to Henry Crawford, after all. But Fanny wouldn't have wished any differently; she loved Tom too well to want him in that kind of danger for <em>any</em> reason, let alone for <em>her</em> sake.</p><p>"Have you ever seen one?" she wanted to know. "A duel, I mean?"</p><p>Affectionately brushing his fingers against hers as he did so, Tom took the pistol back into his own hands. "I was someone's second once."</p><p>"Did he die?"</p><p>He looked shocked she would even suppose such a thing. "God, no! What are you thinking, Fanny? This is modern-day England, after all, and you – perceptive little mouse that you are – can't fancy yourself married to someone who'd waste their time with some dullard clueless enough to let it get that far? I think you know me better than <em>that</em>."</p><p>"I suppose so," she demurred. "What <em>did</em> happen?"</p><p>"Myself and the other man's second managed to prevent it from taking place – we all shook hands and made a lot of pretty speeches – and then the gentleman who'd named me as second accidentally shot himself in the foot."</p><p>"<em>Oh</em>!"</p><p>"Yes, one must be very careful" – he motioned with the pistol, pointing the barrel towards the wall – "when these things are loaded. The blasted hair-triggers can be tripped very easily."</p><p>Fanny nodded emphatically – her brother William liked it, when he explained the safety of an object to her, if she nodded to show she was listening, to show she understood; he looked worried if she did not.</p><p>She took it for granted all men felt that way when making a cautionary statement in front of a woman.</p><p>Tom didn't seem to be watching her reaction, however; he was not peering down into her face to be sure she comprehended his warning, his mind already having moved – gone quite ahead without the slightest halt – to the next point in his continuing line of thought.</p><p>His lips puckered into an appreciative whistle. "<em>Damn</em> beautiful workmanship."</p><hr/><p>At Lady Bertram's order, Mrs. Chapman came in to help Fanny dress and style her hair (Tom had already vacated their chambers by this point, and was downstairs pouring himself drinks from the decanter in the drawing-room), and she submitted with good grace until it was time for the final touches.</p><p>What jewellery she would wear being a tender subject to her at the moment, Fanny – concluding this was a matter best settled in solitude – quietly said, "I thank you, but I shall see to any ornaments for myself."</p><p>"As you will, madam." And Chapman gave a polite curtsy and left her.</p><p>In one near-trembling hand, Fanny held Edmund's simple, perfect chain and relished the comfortable memory of daily wearing it, of wearing it to the picnic, and felt a rush of happy warmth. From the opposite hand, held so loosely it slipped from her shaky grasp and dropped onto her dressing-table with a <em>chunk</em>, fell the Crawfords' oppressively ornate gold necklace.</p><p>Someone must be pleased, and someone else must be slighted. Even if that someone was only herself. Even if the wounded feelings and discomfort were all in her own heart alone.</p><p>There seemed to be no escaping her miserable fate.</p><p>"What can I do?" she muttered, heart pounding. "What can I <em>do</em>?"</p><p>Her misting eyes settled, then, on her open workbox.</p><p>She saw, side by side, a length of ribbon left over from the trimmings she'd been using to make small alterations to her chosen dress for the ball and Tom's handkerchief.</p><p>"They won't like it," she murmured, about to brush the idea off as soon as it came. "Everyone will think it most unsuitable – it may not even be <em>allowable</em>." Sighing, she touched the tip of her little finger to the ring of William's amber cross. "But if it really <em>is</em> my night..." She swallowed. "If it really is my night, perhaps Sir Thomas' guests will indulge me and see it, only this one time, how I used to prefer."</p><hr/><p>"Tom, for pity's sake, where's your wife?" hissed Mrs. Norris, when the room was starting to fill with guests and Sir Thomas' subject of honour had yet to make an appearance.</p><p>Tom shrugged unhelpfully.</p><p>Susan – nearly unrecognisable with her fair hair done in Grecian curls and piled atop her head, well-attired in a wine-coloured, high-waisted dress decorated with paler red beads – walked past them and Mrs. Norris caught her arm. "<em>Where's </em>your sister?"</p><p>"Pray excuse me, aunt, I do not know." She fluttered her eyelashes demurely, casting her gaze downwards and reaching to catch her slipping shawl. "I might easily imagine, however, she is still dressing in her room."</p><p>Lady Bertram, overhearing this, called, "Yes, I sent Chapman to her."</p><p>"The folly of young people," muttered Mrs. Norris, shaking her head. "Keeping everybody waiting, as if the world existed solely for their amusement."</p><p>"What are we talking about?" Mr. Yates approached their circle, smiling and holding a drink – which Tom immediately took out of his hand and downed in a single swallow, throwing back his head and <em>gulping </em>vigorously, before returning the empty glass to his startled friend. "<em>Oh</em>. I did not know <em>you</em> wanted one, old bean."</p><p>"She's here." Susan tapped Tom's arm and motioned to the slim figure which had just that moment appeared at the top of the stairs.</p><p>A slight hush spread over the guests as they all looked up – perhaps taking a hint that this was who they were supposed to be admiring from the fact that all the Bertrams, even Edmund and Julia, were simultaneously staring in her direction upon her making an appearance – and watched Fanny walk down towards them.</p><p>Fanny wore a familiar gown of white muslin sewn up with glass beads. A longer train had been added, and simplistic lace trimming (including a slight flounce) and cream-coloured ribbons adorned the hem of the gown's skirt where they had previously not, but it was very obviously the same dress she'd worn to her wedding – the dress Tom had bought for her.</p><p>From her neck dangled her brother's amber cross, but it was not strung upon a chain, tied instead to a bit of creamy ribbon the same as that which decorated the hem of her gown.</p><p>"She's dressed far too plainly," remarked Mr. Yates. "And she could <em>smile</em> more – your wife looks positively petrified, poor creature." There was no immediate response. He turned his head. "<em>Bertram</em>?"</p><p>Tom<em> gazed</em>. "What kind of nonsense <em>are </em>you spewing, John? She looks downright angelic."</p><p>"She's like a <em>princess</em>," sighed Susan, starry-eyed. "She's so beautiful!"</p><p>"What can that girl be <em>thinking</em>?" gasped Mrs. Norris, one fluttering hand hovering dramatically at her throat. "Showing up in front of these people under-adorned like that! Is is <em>trying</em> to humiliate Sir Thomas?"</p><p>Tom had already left them and was walking to the stairs to take his wife's hand when she reached the bottom step. "Words fail me, creepmouse – you're a vision."</p><p>Blushing several blotchy shades of scarlet and ruby, she placed her hand in his and stepped down amongst the others.</p><p>"What a brilliantly <em>clever</em> idea, Fanny!" exclaimed Edmund, beaming with approval, when he reached her. "Most girls would wear every jewel they owned to their first ball in a place like this – you've shown such sincere modesty in your appearance that I daresay everybody else present will seem over-trimmed in comparison. You look so <em>humble</em> and <em>penitent</em>, like a saint from a Bible story. Not that <em>you</em> have ever had anything to be penitent about – you're all goodness, through and through."</p><p>"You do not think it too fine, then, cousin," said she, threading her fingers through Tom's as she spoke.</p><p>"Oh, a woman can <em>never</em> be too fine when she is all in white – I always say so. One cannot help loving a lady in white. Is that your <em>wedding dress</em> done over?"</p><p>She nodded. "Yes – I thought it appropriate, since I'm being introduced in company as Tom's wife."</p><p>"Miss Crawford" – and Edmund turned to the Crawfords, brother and sister both, who had appeared beside them while Fanny yet spoke – "you said you had a dress something like this one once, did you not?"</p><p>"Indeed, I had." Mary smiled and approached Fanny, reaching to touch the ribbon at her neck. "But, dearest Mrs. Bertram, why on earth should you do <em>this</em> in place of a good necklace?"</p><p>"I-I wished to appear something like Mr. Bertram first saw me," she said, clinging tighter to his hand. She hoped desperately this excuse would ward off any ready offence on Mary's part. "I had no chain when we met in Portsmouth."</p><p>"How sweet," sighed Mary. "Your reverence, Fanny, could – I think – make even the most unromantic, sensible person feel a twinge of real longing to be loved. Don't you think it's sweet, Henry?" A pause. "Henry?" She elbowed her brother. "<em>Henry</em>!"</p><p>"Yes – you must forgive me," he coughed out. "I was simply admiring the enrapturing sight before me in silent contemplation. Mrs. Bertram is truly a marvel to behold this night – I quite declare she's the sort of woman a man sees and at once wishes to stand nearer to."</p><p>Tom beamed at him. "D'you know, I was saying to Charles Maddox – just yesterday – Fanny really has become too beautiful for safe society. If ever I take her to London with me, I fear I must disguise her or some rogue will run me over with his carriage-horse in hopes of getting at my widow once I'm gone."</p><p>"But," Mr. Crawford said with an admiring, lingering smirk, "how would you manage it? Such loveliness is not easy to hide."</p><p>"Well," Tom mulled jovially, a teasing glint in his eye, "I must buy her another gown – the opposite of the one she wears this evening. Less flattering, to be sure. Mr. Yates must advice me, as I've personally always thought one dress looks very like another." He snapped his fingers. "Wait! By Jove, I <em>know</em>! I've got it now. It must be <em>brown with a white apron</em>, and she will wear a mob cap to complete the look. Then we shall borrow Chapman from my mother – what a day that poor woman will have of it in London! – and have Fanny made over. We must make her a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of her eyes. She will be a very proper, little old woman – no one will ever suspect just what a sublime and pretty creature resides underneath."</p><p>Mary, Edmund, and Henry all laughed at this – and Henry added, with cool eyes which did not compliment the over-tenderness of his tone, "<em>I</em> should never hide your beauty, Mrs. Bertram, were I in his place; I would parade you, as you are at your best, shamelessly before <em>le bon ton</em>" – Fanny winced, disentangled her finger's from Tom's, thinking only to get <em>away</em>, and blurted, "Please, you must all excuse me, I <em>beg </em>you–"</p><p>"Oh, we've quite mortified her – the whole group of us – I'm afraid," sighed Mary. "How beastly we've all been to tease her so. Our dearest Fanny Bertram, I think, fears notice and praise the way every other woman in this room tonight would fear neglect in her place."</p><p>Tom turned his head and flexed his hand, as if realising – for the first time – it no longer held Fanny's. "I only <em>jest</em>."</p><p>"Never mind." Henry held out his own hand, as though he expected Fanny to take it, and she goggled at it helplessly. "Come, Mrs. Bertram, if you will allow me to lead you off for a moment or two, I have such a surprise as I <em>know</em> will bring a felicitous smile back to that face we've cruelly mortified and relight the joy in your distressed eyes."</p><p>With a jolt, she took a step back, keeping both her hands out of his reach. "No, I cannot. You must pardon me, Mr. Crawford, but I believe Mr. Bertram has need of me just now, and–"</p><p>"<em>I</em>?" blurted Tom, brow furrowed; he was misunderstanding her entirely. "<em>What</em>? Certainly <em>not</em>, Fanny, it's all right – go with him, have a nice time. See what this grand surprise of Mr. Crawford's is all about. Tell me about it later, if it's anything very exciting. You're under no obligation to nail yourself to my side."</p><p>So, that was it, then. Tom was leaving her to her fate. Her heart sank; her stomach churned. She was – down to the unshed tears and dreary resignation – as one being led to the chopping block, or to the guillotine.</p><p><em>Oh, Tom, </em>why<em>?</em></p><p>She gnawed miserably on her lower lip. Her expression was pleading and desperate, even as Henry Crawford was leading her steadily away from the others, pulling her across the room, yet her husband took no notice.</p><p>Mr. Crawford stopped before an alcove – Fanny scanned for other guests nearby, but there were none. Once taken inside, once the curtains were drawn behind themselves, they'd be quite alone.</p><p>What sort of acceptable surprise could be hidden here?</p><p>He must wish to say something to her – something shocking – he desired the others not to hear. It was in her mind, then, how he had called her by her Christian name, how he'd said <em>Fanny</em> and not <em>Mrs. Bertram</em> at Sotherton, right before Tom came and carried her off. That could be the prelude to nothing <em>good</em>. And yet he was a gentleman; he surely could not be foolish enough to...to...</p><p>To <em>what</em>, exactly, she could not even venture a guess. If asked, if anyone had spared her and asked directly what it was she was so frightened of, Fanny could not have said.</p><p>Only, she knew she <em>was</em> frightened, all the same.</p><p>I shall have to tell him, she practised in her frantic mind, I do not welcome his attentions – that there is no way he could have reasonably supposed I did, though I'm very sorry if there's been some mistake, if I've done something to make him think the contrary – and he really must let me go back to my ball now.</p><p>"Here," said Henry, coming behind her and putting a blindfold over her eyes before she could get a word out. "Now, step forward, over to the little sofa, and sit down a moment – trust me, I won't let you fall."</p><p>His hands were on her arms which shook violently.</p><p>Then she was sitting in the dark, terrified, wanting anyone but Henry Crawford to come and put their arms about her and tell her it was all right and she was working herself up over nothing and they'd never let anything bad happen to her.</p><p>"Mrs. Bertram" – still only Mr. Crawford's relentlessly brilliant voice – "do you recognise the voice of the person sitting next to you?"</p><p>Fingertips – strangely warm and friendly and familiar and very unlike Mr. Crawford's – brushed against her hand.</p><p>Even comforted by this touch, she longed unceasingly for Tom, or Susan, or Edmund, or–</p><p>"Hello, Fanny."</p><p>"<em>William</em>!" she cried, her terror forgotten as she reached up and ripped the blindfold off and saw, indeed, it was her most beloved brother sitting beside her.</p><p>The siblings turned at the waist simultaneously and <em>embraced</em>, clinging to each other like two entwining ivy vines, squeezing and clutching without the slightest worry over mussing their best clothing or – in Fanny's case – hair that had been very greatly fussed over by Mrs. Chapman.</p><p>"Oh, <em>look at you</em>!" murmured William, holding her to him as if he would never let her go again. "You're the same as when I saw you last! <em>Exactly</em> the same, I think" – she was indeed even wearing the same dress, though he did not properly recognise it, being a man – "but much healthier. I believe the country air has done you wonders."</p><p>Henry looked on with a wistful, contented smile. "Yes, this is my surprise."</p><p>Letting go of William with reluctance, Fanny beamed, all forgiveness and felicity, at the very same gentleman she had so feared moments ago. No one who would do a thing like this could have wicked intent, surely! She'd mistaken him. A sporting, flirting man he might be, but his character must not be truly a lost cause if he could think up such a kindness as this – such as bringing a brother all the way from Portsmouth, a brother she had not even known was back in England – for a woman who was, really, nothing to him. They were not even related by means of Mary's attachment to Edmund, since evidently nothing was happening there; he had no reason to do this for her, and yet he had!</p><p>"I cannot tell you, Mr. Crawford, how obliged to you I am – it is beyond what words can express – I shall never forget you have done this thing for me."</p><p>"Oh, but there is <em>more</em>," said he, smiling softly, his gaze warm.</p><p>How could there be? And yet she inclined her head slightly forward, willing to hear.</p><p>"Your brother is made – he is a lieutenant. And I have brought him here, not only for your ball, you see, but also so you might congratulate him in person on his promotion."</p><p>Fanny gawked. Her eyes darted from one man to the other in stunned, mouth-parted silence. "Is this <em>true</em>, William? <em>Can</em> it be?"</p><p>"I have the letters – Henry has given them to me, placed them personally in my hands this very night before bringing me to this alcove to see you," said William, alight with joy now she knew his happiness and it was no longer a surprise which must be kept from her for the sake of suspense. "I will show them to you tomorrow at breakfast, if you wish to see them. I'm no longer a midshipman; I'm Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush."</p><p>She grasped her brother and kissed his cheek. "Oh, William! I'm so happy for you! After all this time – after you had so nearly lost hope of it ever happening!"</p><p>"Oh," cried William, tears of mirth streaming down his face, "look at us, Fanny, look at us! Look what's happened after all! We've grown up to be all right! You're a <em>Bertram</em> – it's not a near-secret marriage any more, they're throwing you a party unlike anything I've ever seen. And I'm a lieutenant. And, most importantly, we're together again."</p><p>"It's <em>wonderful</em>," sobbed Fanny, overcome. "Isn't it all so inexpressibly wonderful?"</p><p>Henry waited their shared bewilderment out with good humour and no small level of satisfaction. He had made the woman he loved happier than he'd ever seen her. Happier than he'd ever imagined her in his wildest dreams. Happier, he fancied, even than Tom Bertram had made her by giving her that beautiful grey horse. He'd given her not only <em>William</em> – her most precious William – but a promoted William who was set for life now.</p><p>He'd known he could make her happy if given the chance. He'd known together they could be–</p><p>Fanny seemed, then, to remember he was still there. "Oh, dear <em>Mr. Crawford</em>, has this been <em>your</em> doing – every bit of it – from start to finish? Good Heaven! How very, very kind! How was this done? I am stupefied."</p><p>"I can explain the particulars over breakfast tomorrow, if you'll invite me to dine, while William reads you the letters – I shall present myself at half-past nine – for now, I think, you must have your night."</p><p>Fanny felt a pang of unpleasantness pierce her. She wanted breakfast with William to <em>herself</em>. She wanted her brother's company, for who knew how long it might last, all to herself. She wanted no one else there as they breakfasted – hardly even <em>Tom</em>, let alone Susan or Edmund or Sir Thomas – but they themselves. William Price, as he always had, trumped all. Perhaps it was not<em> right</em>, certainly it was not <em>fair</em>, and Fanny knew it, yet still...</p><p>Well, it would have been an impossible indulgence anyway. She could not have asked the others not to eat with them – there was no reason Mr. Crawford should not. No reason and yet, somehow, every single reason in the world. She hated herself for her selfishness, for her unbending wish, but there it was.</p><p>To make up for her true, deepest thoughts, she forced herself to be all kindness to Crawford, to show him every civility, so that he might see how grateful she truly was despite her not wanting him around.</p><p>He must not <em>suspect</em> himself an unwanted friend, an undesired member of their party, not after what he had <em>done</em>. Surely not. Such would be unspeakable rudeness.</p><p>She rose, slowly, and she offered him a near-sisterly embrace and said he was welcome to breakfast, and thanked him once again, and agreed to save two dances for him this night, though she did not really want to dance with Mr. Crawford – even only twice – when she could be dancing with her husband or brother-in-law instead.</p><p>Someone pushed back the curtain, then – Fanny still had not quite let go of Henry, yet partially embracing him and not allowing herself to think (for she must not think badly of him tonight after this) he was clinging to her unnecessarily, especially not <em>with William watching</em>, as no gentleman in the world could be so <em>crass</em> – and Maria Rushworth was standing there, lifting a fistful of tan velvet and tawny tassel, her brow severely lowered and her exceedingly <em>blue</em> eyes stormy.</p><hr/><p>Things progressed from merely ill-fated to positively <em>grim</em> – from what would have been <em>Fanny's</em> prospective, if she were not distracted by the pleasure of seeing her dearest William, anyway, though it was all rather a carefully calculated boon from <em>Henry Crawford's</em> – as the dancing was about to begin.</p><p>It started inconspicuously enough, with Henry walking across the length of the room and whispering with Charles Anderson, who seemed to be asking him something – he then pointed Mr. Anderson in the direction of Tom Bertram, who appeared to be the man Anderson needed to speak to and had been looking for. Innocent, surely, though interesting, also, how Henry had not managed to speak to Charles earlier and tell him where Tom was; indeed, it was strange that Charles should not have found Tom himself before, unless someone arranged for them to be standing in the wrong places at the wrong moments. At any rate, Anderson's urgent message could only be related to Tom as the dancing was to commence, forcing him to choose between opening the first dance with Fanny or conversing with his near-frantic companion who'd just come down from Newmarket.</p><p>Henry, however, gallantly and with smooth ease, offered a ready solution.<em> He</em> should open the dancing with Mrs. Bertram – she had promised him two dances anyway, he pointed out, when they spoke between just themselves and William Price, and it should matter very little to anybody present whether these came at the start or end of the night – while Tom conversed with Mr. Anderson and settled whatever the matter was.</p><p>"You can then come in for the third dance of the evening," Henry finished.</p><p>Tom nearly hesitated, glancing uncertainly between Charles and his – currently blanching – wife, only to disappoint Fanny by declaring Mr. Crawford's scheme 'no bad plan' and asking 'if she minded' in such a way that did not actually leave her room to say she did mind very much without causing offence, whether he realised it or not.</p><p>Despite being willing to dance with Henry Crawford in a spirit of friendship, Fanny was not keen on opening with him – indeed, she was not keen on leading the dancing or opening at all, and had comforted herself with the knowledge that it would be all right since Tom would be her partner – and so made a last-ditch effort to save herself yet.</p><p>Turning to William with her most desperate expression, one she knew he would not ignore, she said, "I believe <em>William</em> wished to dance the first set with me – he has come such a long way."</p><p>But Mrs. Norris, overhearing, spoiled it before William might even have taken his sister's hand in his own and begun to lead her off. "A brother and sister opening the dancing together? I should think not! It's much too improper. It would look<em> absurd</em>. You cannot think of shaming Sir Thomas – first with your plain attire, and <em>then</em>–"</p><p>Susan put her oar in, perhaps more acutely aware than their brother – who, perceptive of his most beloved sister's feelings or not, still thought rather too well of Mr. Crawford for the service he had rendered him – of Fanny's real distress. "But William and Fanny have danced together <em>many times </em>in Portsmouth. Not only at assemblies, either, but in the street when the hand-organ was out. Nobody minded."</p><p>"And besides," William added, "nobody knows who I am here, and would not think twice of my being her partner."</p><p>"Oh," sighed Henry, shaking his head. "Oh,<em> dear</em>. I fear that is not quite so – in my happiness for Mrs. Bertram, as I knew her felicity would be great, I may have told many guests who you were, telling them of your promotion and connection to the family. I did not know you meant to dance together. <em>I </em>should not have thought of dancing publicly with Mary in society, much as I love her, and I thought – foolishly, it seems – you would be just the same. You must forgive me the error, for it was not my intention to spoil your fun."</p><p>Fanny was dismayed, but Susan gave it one further try. "If not Fanny, though, aunt, <em>who</em> will dance with William? None of the women here have been introduced to him, even if they know who he is from conversing with Mr. Crawford."</p><p>Henry's eyes flickered over, almost imperceptibly, to his sister. <em>Help me.</em></p><p>Mary took his cue. "Indeed, I should be delighted, if you will lead me, Mr. Price." She offered her hand to William who – despite himself – blushed and looked, for all the world, <em>very</em> like his favourite sister as he did so.</p><p>One could almost wonder if – even had Henry been kinder and kept his knowledge of William's identity to himself – Sir Thomas' guests wouldn't have worked out exactly who he was just from seeing his and Fanny's faces in close proximity.</p><p>Edmund was indignant. Mary Crawford, who he had once – and truly <em>still</em> – hoped to marry, would not dance with him because he was a clergyman, yet she was all but <em>throwing</em> herself at a new lieutenant. He couldn't, try as he might do for the sake of not spoiling the evening, bear the slight, not even for Fanny's sake. In another situation, he would have adored Mary for her sacrifice, for aiding Fanny's family, but as things stood, as he could not shake the insult to <em>himself</em>, his fury made him too cross even to speak.</p><p>No one would have paid Edmund's hot, growing anger much mind, and he might have been left to brood in peace, not only for that minute but for the rest of the night unless Mary took some small mercy on him, had Mrs. Norris not felt it her duty to remark on his apparent sulkiness, which in turn drew Miss Crawford's eyes to him.</p><p>"Oh, come, do be civil," sighed Mary, gazing on Edmund's icy countenance with weary annoyance. It was not <em>her</em> idea to force Henry and Fanny together – it was only sisterly duty, as anyone who loved a brother as she did Henry would do, and could not be helped. Surely even <em>Fanny </em>would have done the same had <em>William's</em> heart been on the line.</p><p>"Pardon me, Miss Crawford," he said coldly, making as if to remove himself from their circle. "But I am worn out with civility. If you intend to have me talk all night with nothing to say, I should do better, I think, to give my attentions to someone with whom there might be peace."</p><hr/><p>So it was, as he had arranged it, Henry Crawford who opened with Fanny – Henry Crawford who was watched and admired, and basked in the pleasure of hearing whispers regarding what a lovely pair they made.</p><p>And, to be sure, they <em>were</em> more striking together than one might have expected.</p><p>For all that Henry was not a well-looking man, he had a very pretty countenance when he was happy or else amused – and dancing with Fanny delighted him to an extreme which put his features to their best advantage – and she, despite being nearly as tall as Maria and Julia and certainly taller than Mary, was not too tall to complement him in public.</p><p>Her light curls and pale complexion were a fine contrast to his ruddy brownness; they made people want to look at them again, after a first glance, if nothing more.</p><p>Fanny wished she could be more grateful, after what he had done for her, and not long so for the dances they shared to be over.</p><p>Her eyes strayed often to the corner of the room, looking for Tom and Mr. Anderson, fretting over her husband's drawn, worried face. Her anxiety over Tom and her dislike of Henry Crawford making such a fuss over her – being so close to her and taking her hands and lightly touching her waist by turns when it came to spinning her about – prevented her from seeing the way Maria, seething, watched them together. She might have understood, if she had seen her sister-in-law that exact moment, why it was she was so despised despite their having exchanged so little communication.</p><p>Henry and Fanny spoke precious little during their dances, save the once, when Henry said, "You dance with elegance and lightness."</p><p>And she, struggling for a reply, managed to stammer out, "One cannot dance elegantly <em>alone</em>, Mr. Crawford."</p><p>"Good heavens!" exclaimed he, rather mortifying her by the raising of his voice. "She complimented me! Mrs. Bertram – the reserved, quiet Mrs. Bertram – has given <em>me</em> a compliment."</p><p>Crimson, she glanced over her shoulder. "I complimented your <em>dancing</em>, Mr. Crawford, pray keep your composure. People are<em> staring</em>."</p><p>Henry threw back his head. "Let them stare – for I have had all I ever truly desired given to me in one single moment."</p><p>"<em>Mr. Crawford</em>–"</p><p>"Remember, Mrs. Bertram, people will stare at you anyway, whether my voice be too loud or too soft – not just because of who you are, but because you are nice to look at."</p><p>And she choked up and closed off, wishing again for Tom – or even Edmund. Why could <em>Edmund </em>not have volunteered to dance with her when William was made to be out of the question?</p><p>She could not understand it.</p><p>Should his anger at Mary Crawford's dancing with William put him out of sorts with <em>her</em>? She'd believed them dear companions on both sides. Excepting Susan and Tom – who were dear in different ways and could not touch her <em>other</em> purest loves any more than a little blue star in our sky can collide with a great golden sun in another galaxy – apart from William, there was no soul more beloved in this world to her than Edmund. She would much rather have been opening the dancing with<em> him</em>. <em>She</em> was not ashamed to dance with a clergyman, even if the likes of <em>Miss Crawford</em> thought herself too grand for the honour.</p><p>She had, <em>finally</em>, her third dance with Tom, and it was in all outward respects perfect, but the damage was already done – <em>she</em> had opened the ball with another,<em> he </em>had been made unhappy and visibly distracted by whatever Mr. Anderson told him.</p><p>Moreover, unable to secure a dance with Mary, Edmund would not dance with<em> anybody</em> – which left Susan, who could no more dance with William than Fanny had been permitted, seated without a partner for most of the night. Mr. Yates might have asked her, as he'd done in Portsmouth, but he was not unselfish enough to forsake dancing with his dearest Julia, who had made him her particular partner that evening despite Maria mocking her for it.</p><p>Mr. Maddox asked for a dance with Fanny, simply because she was so much on display and he wished to compliment Tom as a friend, and during that set Tom did – in turn, though almost as an after-thought – have the decency to recall Susan's existence and ask her, as he had done for Sophie in Weymouth, but she was forgotten again as soon as the music came to a halt and the partners stepped apart and clapped their farewells.</p><p>This put Susan in a unique position to converse with Maria Rushworth when she noticed the woman looking on with pure venom as Fanny was handed over from Mr. Maddox back to Tom, who dragged her to the front of the line, ready for the next set.</p><p>Under her breath, so as not to make a scene (though part of her would have liked nothing better, given the appalling progression of the night thus far), Susan muttered, "Mrs. Rushworth, why are you so cross with Fanny? Are you really as angry as all <em>that</em> she's married your brother?"</p><p>Maria might have denied it – lied very prettily indeed – to another sort of woman, but she thought Susan below the level which might require such nicety, and remarked, with a disgusted little snort, "You think I care about <em>Tom</em>?"</p><p>"Then, why–"</p><p>"I couldn't care less if she wishes to make a cuckold of my brother – she can take as many lovers as she wants, provided she can <em>get</em> them," she snarled, turning and unfurling her fan to hide her lips from any guests whose eyes might have been upon her, attempting to read them as she spoke with her cousin. "But she did not have to steal Henry from me!"</p><p>Susan was aghast. "Fanny has <em>never</em> encouraged Henry Crawford – she only wants your brother."</p><p>Tightening her grip on her fan, Maria pursed her lips. "Then she's the most foolish girl who ever lived, in addition to whatever else she is – it was clear, from the moment I saw them both at Sotherton Court, Henry was hers for the taking." She sucked her teeth. "So that's it. What I couldn't work out before – how she keeps him without so much as a look or touch. She's captivated him and, in a fit of provincial piety, won't finish it so he can get what he wants and move on." Her nostrils flared. "<em>The insipid little tease</em>!"</p><p>Susan's mouth formed a perfect O of revolted surprise, but whatever she was about to say to her cousin once the ability to form words returned to her remained unspoken, because Lady Bertram came up between them and remarked, "Tom and Fanny have learned a new dance." She blinked twice in their direction. "I do not know these steps at all." Then, she added, "Fanny's train looks very well as she holds it up – <em>she</em> looks very well, truth be told. She's the finest girl here, easily." She took Susan's arm. "I sent Chapman to her, you know."</p><p>"Yes, aunt, I know – you've told us."</p><p>Maria rolled her eyes and fluttered her fan rapidly.</p><p>"Have I?" Lady Bertram sounded astonished. "Heavens, Susie! I <em>am</em> glad you keep track of these things, for I did not recollect if I had mentioned it previously."</p><p>And how was Fanny and Tom's dance going closer up?</p><p>Well enough, discounting how Tom – when he spoke – spoke of nothing but his sick horse.</p><p>That was, as it happened, the news Anderson had brought him. One of his horses at Newmarket was sick with some mysterious aliment or other and the – it would seem near-useless – gentleman who was his current proxy, in charge of keeping 'that damn fool of a jockey in line' as Tom put it, did not know what he was supposed to do.</p><p>"The <em>groom</em> is as bad as any of them; he had the wherewithal, barely, to have Charles ask me," huffed Tom, as Fanny moved under his arm and they stepped apart, "if there was a special kind of mash he was meant to give the beast – <em>mash</em>! To which <em>I</em> said, 'Charlie, old fellow, you may tell that sorry imbecile the only mash in question is the wasted grey matter between his stupid ears, and if he poisons my horse with some old wives' remedy I shall take great pleasure in stringing him by his thumbs'. That's what I told him. Fanny, did you ever hear of such incompetence?"</p><p>She confessed she had not and delicately held off from pointing out this was not a particularly romantic topic, seeing him to be greatly upset and perhaps understandably so.</p><p>"I thought grooms were supposed to <em>know</em> about horses."</p><p>"I'm sure the situation is much to be lamented, Tom."</p><p>He smiled, for – unguarded and a little too winded to think clearly – she had avoided calling him <em>Mr. Bertram</em>, despite their being in public. But then the smile was only a tiny smirk and was soon gone altogether.</p><p>"And to <em>think</em>," said he, "this has been going on a while without my being informed – he's been trying for hours, he told me, to have a word on this matter – Charles Anderson, I mean – and was repeatedly prevented."</p><p>"I'm sorry."</p><p>"It's not only the one horse, either, as I hear it – Francis won't run. He's healthy as – well, a <em>horse</em>, naturally enough – but the blasted creature will not run alongside the others. Something has spooked him, and so he cannot be raced."</p><p>The dance slowed and their hands touched.</p><p>"What can you <em>do</em>?" whispered Fanny.</p><p>"I must go to Newmarket in the morning, after breakfast," he said. "There's nothing else for it."</p><p>Her heart sank. No. No, no, no. Not again. She could not <em>bear</em> to be left alone in this place – with the Crawfords so near – again. Henry Crawford's generosity this night could not change that.</p><p>"I'm coming with you," she squeaked out, her lungs feeling constricted.</p><p>"No, Fanny." Tom shook his head. "I'm afraid that's not possible. This is quite serious, and you would only be a distraction. Besides you're better off here, with my parents – and Edmund, until he goes back to Thornton Lacey."</p><p>"I-I cannot stay."</p><p>"Don't be absurd, of course you can – I shan't be gone long."</p><p>"I want to come."</p><p>"And <em>I</em> want my horse not to be taken sick in the first place, creepmouse – we all <em>want</em> things."</p><p>"I'm more than a distraction – I'm your <em>wife</em>." And she fled the set, despite the music beginning to speed up again.</p><p>"Fanny! Fanny, wait." Tom nudged the gentleman to his left out of the way so he could see which direction his wife headed off in. "Fanny, get back here, for God's sake!"</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>?" Susan freed her arm from Lady Bertram's grasp and ran after her sister.</p><p>"Oh. Oh, <em>dear</em>," murmured Lady Bertram.</p><p>A few feet away, Mary and Edmund stomped by in a heated quarrel of their own.</p><p>"If I never hear another word about <em>William Price</em>," snapped Mary, "it will be too soon – I do declare you speak of him more than <em>Fanny </em>and it has bored me to distraction."</p><p>"I ask, Miss Crawford, that you not be flippant and change the subject." He glowered darkly at her and – taking her arm with uncharacteristic firmness – spun her to face him. "How could you snub me as you did? D'you expect because I am a clergyman now I have no feelings? Were you told, by some ignorant spoiled little London friend who has never once <em>spoken</em> to a man who's known the inside of a pulpit in the whole of her life, how they take away our hearts when we take orders? And were you fool enough to believe it? I think better of you than that! Yet, I find myself asking 'am I not a real man in your eyes now that I've taken the cloth?'</p><p>"Do you not know how I suffer for your sake? I have endured your endless degrading remarks about my profession; I have smiled forgivingly while you, again and again, put down all I hold dear, simply because of my tenderness for you, my respect and admiration and fondness – I have reasoned, without being moved to anger, when all you would do in return was ridicule – and for what reward?"</p><p>"I am not flippant, nor do I exist merely to offer <em>you </em>a reward, Mr. Edmund Bertram." Mary wretched herself free and shook him off emphatically. "Now unhand me at once and do not make a scene – not here."</p><p>"Answer me this and I shall have done with it," he insisted, nearly spluttering. "<em>How</em> can you willingly dance with him and not me?"</p><p>"William Price is a first-born son, is he not? And he moves up in the world, doesn't he? Why shouldn't I dance with him over a clergyman who will never rise beyond a podgy parish?"</p><p>Edmund staggered back, visibly pained. "So that's it – that's been it all along, has it not? And I was blind, thinking you cared for me under all your teasing. Here I bitterly discover, however, my only sin towards you is being born after Tom. My profession, for all the hatred you express towards it, only repels you because I am not in line for a baronetcy."</p><p>"Don't <em>do</em> this," she pleaded, her voice cracking with misery she could not hide behind her usual easy laugh. "Don't spoil everything. I cannot speak to you when you are being irrational and ranting like a madman, dampening my spirits and thwarting my gaiety." And the sound of Mary's heels slapped against the floor as she made her way out of the room. "We shall see one another later, when you're not so heated and cross with me over so little a trifle as my choice in dancing partner!"</p><p>Edmund groaned and covered his face with his hands.</p><p>Maria, turning her head and cutting her eyes in his direction, sighed, "Oh, <em>please</em> – women shall be, in one way or another, rejecting you all your life, Edmund – it is the female prerogative, you know – there is no need to make such a horrid display over it in public."</p><p>Lady Bertram's expression was softer, kinder – she'd not heard what her eldest daughter just said and doubtless would not have known how to go about properly reprimanding her even if she had. "What's happened, Edmund? Have you and Mary quarrelled just this moment? I thought I heard raised voices. Can I offer any assistance?"</p><p>He took his mother's hand and kissed it. "No, of course not, madam. All is well, I assure you. Where is Fanny?"</p><p>"I do not know," said Lady Bertram, giving a puzzled shake of the head. "She has fled the dance – and she had no reason to that I could see. She looked so well. I sent Chapman to her."</p><hr/><p>Tom Bertram spent the rest of the ball playing cards with the gouty gentleman and lace-cap donning ladies who were – most for quite obvious reasons – disinclined to dance.</p><p>It was not a merry group, no one had anything very nice to say, and most of them understood whist about as well as they understood algebra – which was not at all. There was disturbingly little distinction between the old married women who'd had the life drained out of them by life's disappointments and the bracket-faced ape leaders who were only sisters and cousins, if anything, to the gentlemen present.</p><p>Tom won a great deal of money and – despite his competitive spirit, made only rawer and stronger by the unresolved quarrel with Fanny chafing away at it – was then inclined to lose it all back to them by playing badly during the final hand of the night (<em>morning</em>, really, by then) simply because it seemed the – at <em>least</em> – two working brain cells he possessed which they did not gave him a most unfair advantage.</p><p>He would have felt less guilty about winning pocket money from a damned chimpanzee.</p><p>And while he drank and stewed and blinked blearily at his cards, Fanny retired to an alcove to cry tears she would only permit Susan to see. When Sir Thomas, William, and Henry Crawford discovered her there, she blamed the redness of her face on being overtired, and Susan faithfully kept her secret.</p><p>She would have told William the truth, if he'd come to her alone, but she could not bring herself to admit to having a disagreement with her husband in front of her father-in-law and <em>Mr. Crawford</em>, of all persons.</p><p>So she could only force a weak smile while William expressed amazement at her being so soon knocked up. "The sport has but just begun, sister!"</p><p>"By my watch," said Sir Thomas, with a glance at the gleaming face of a gold watch he drew from his waistcoat, "it is three in the morning. Your sister is not used to these sort of hours, you must remember. We've never had a ball before this in all the time she's been here; we are a very sedate family, usually."</p><p>"Are you sure you're quite well, Mrs. Bertram?" asked Mr. Crawford. "No one has hurt you?"</p><p>"Who would dare?" exclaimed William, not understanding.</p><p>Fanny – swallowing back bile – assured them she was altogether well, wanting only for sleep, and was given leave then to retire to her chambers. Her dishonesty as well as true exhaustion shamed her and made her lower her head.</p><p>She felt certain the word <em>Liar</em> (or perhaps <em>I</em><em>ngrate</em>) would appear above her brow as though from invisible ink revealed and that Mr. Crawford would be foolhardy enough to point it out to anyone who might fail to notice.</p><hr/><p>In the carriage, Mary furiously dashed away tears with the back of her wrist. "I hope your dances with Mrs. Bertram were <em>worth it</em>, Henry," she hiccuped, turning her head. "Edmund will never speak to me again – this time I feel quite certain of it."</p><p>"Oh, dearest" – Henry's face was the very picture of compassion, and he moved across to her seat and put his arms about her – "I <em>am</em> sorry." Then, speaking softly into her hairline, "But, sweet Mary, you knew you would have to accept or reject him outright someday or other – you were permitted your fun, but you cannot play 'will I, won't I?' with your favourite gentleman forever, and he is going home soon."</p><p>"That is rich coming from <em>you</em>," she muttered. "You will never leave off your pursuit of Fanny, when her choice is already made and cannot be unmade."</p><p>"Oh, Mary, you can't <em>understand</em>; she called me <em>dear Mr. Crawford</em> tonight and my heart was stung. I have waited forever to be dear to her. She is perfection itself. I can never cease to pity her situation," sighed Henry, his voice pure misery. "Married to a drunkard – a loose fish, in all ways but perhaps one – who would rather play at cards than dance all night with his beautiful wife. Once my two dances were done, my glorious opening triumph, I knew <em>my</em> portion of felicity was gone for the evening – but there was yet so much pleasure for <em>him</em> which he tossed aside as if it were worthless. She did not <em>say</em>, yet I am convinced he made her cry tonight. I cannot forgive him for that."</p><p>"Do not pity her for quarrelling with Mr. Bertram – <em>all</em> couples quarrel," sniffed Mary, shifting and straightening the skirt of her gown pertly. "Rather, pity her, if you must, for having the misfortune to leg-shackle herself to the kind of man who – I feel quite certain – would unironically put his hands over your eyes at breakfast or while you were dressing and ask you to guess who it was."</p><hr/><p>Fanny, despite her exhaustion, was still awake when Tom came stumbling into their room at nearly quarter-past five in the morning. Her discarded white muslin dress was left on the floor in a crumpled state, and he nearly stepped on it as he approached the bed. He noticed her breathing was not the rhythmic, slow breathing of slumber and – easing down beside her – put a hand on her leg, stroking it through the blanket.</p><p>Pulling herself into a tight, curled-up ball in an unwelcoming fetal position, she swatted him away, shrinking from his touch.</p><p>He was clearly hurt by this. "<em>Fanny</em>–"</p><p>"What would be the <em>point</em>?" she murmured into her pillow, tears leaking from her eyes no matter how desperately she attempted to blink them back. "All you know how to do is take."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Newmarket, An Extended Stay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Thirty-One:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Newmarket, An Extended Stay</em>
</p><p>After breakfast the following day, Fanny Bertram was in a state of full-on collapsed –<em> near-lethargic </em>– misery.</p><p>Although it was impossible – wholly outside of her nature – to resent William for <em>anything</em>, she came as close as she might ever come when Tom – who barely spoke a word to her throughout the meal, still sour over their exchange the night before – announced he was taking William as far as Cambridge, from which he would make his own way to Portsmouth.</p><p>His brother-in-law he would take from this place – a fellow man he would not desert.</p><p>Whereas she...</p><p>Whereas <em>she</em>–</p><p>Whereas she must remain here under the forever staring, dancing, teasing eyes of the Crawfords and the forever biting tongue of Mrs. Norris.</p><p>Tom wasn't even being spiteful, which made it worse – he thought he was granting her a boon, doing something which might make her like him again, bringing his wife's most beloved brother partway home.</p><p>He was so confident in this belief he did not even flinch when Henry Crawford made a somewhat underhanded remark about how – if it were <em>himself</em> taking William home as a brother – <em>he</em> would have gone all the way to Portsmouth.</p><p>But it was only natural, he supposed aloud, bringing a cup of tea to his lips and arching an eyebrow in Fanny's direction, a sick horse should take precedent over such a trifle, over such minor niceties.</p><p>Mr. Bertram was only doing as he thought best, certainly.</p><p>Susan, seated to Fanny's left just opposite of Mr. Crawford and gripping her sliver knife under the table, had to repress the urge to stab him in the upper-leg at this remark (notwithstanding that it completely went over Tom's head by all visible evidence) and – flush-cheeked and buggy-eyed with rage – rather looked as if her own tea had quite gone down the wrong way.</p><p>And <em>Fanny</em> endured worse than sore, clenched fingers.</p><p><em>She</em> had to smile while William showed her the papers, the letters from last night, all the while too keenly aware it was all owed to Mr. Crawford – the same Mr. Crawford who slighted her husband and proved, to her growing dismay, even now, he could not be counted as a real friend, and whose spoiled sister had broken Edmund's heart all over again at the ball – and force herself not to look at Tom, because they were so angry with one another, all the while thinking, perhaps a touch melodramatically, though she could not help it, "God only knows when we shall see one another again, husband."</p><p>What if he should not come back as soon as he promised and here they were leaving with hardly a fare-thee-well to be spared between them?</p><p>Her only – and rather unexpected – consolation apart from dear, steady Susan, was Sir Thomas.</p><p>Her father-in-law was fond enough of her now that – apart from what moments Mrs. Norris could endeavour to spoil – she could no longer dread being left with him in Tom's absence. She was happier than she might have expected, under all her misery and weary slumping shown in her all too visible low spirits, to hear his voice and even answer his questions should he ask any.</p><p>She was no longer wretched in the baronet's company, provided it was not simultaneously shared with the Crawfords.</p><p>And that was <em>something</em>.</p><p>He truly seemed, for all that he was strict with her husband, with the elder son who daily disappointed, to have become truly soft with <em>her</em>, more so than he'd managed with his natural daughters whose natures were less open.</p><p>Rather than scold at catching sight of her swimming eyes, Sir Thomas patted her hair affectionately and informed her how he missed William and Tom, too, and was looking to the near future of Edmund's departure with equal sorrow.</p><p>"We miss our three young men," he sighed, and Fanny had never loved – nor thought to love – him so well before he uttered those words.</p><p>"Yes," said Lady Bertram, with a little sniff, overhearing, "they are all going away – all the boys – I should like to have kept <em>William</em>, if my Tom could not stay; William looks so like Susan and Fanny" – she associated them, dearest girls, she explained, as an aside, with absolute comfort and tranquillity respectively – "that seeing his face made me very happy before ever he said two words."</p><p>And Fanny's heart <em>ached</em>. She sat on the drawing-room sofa and stared and forgot her needlework in mid-stitch and – for lack of a better term – <em>moped</em>.</p><p>(It is worth noting how Edmund, for his part, was entirely unsurprised by the way his father took to Fanny in Tom's absence; he only remarked, once and very quietly, that <em>she</em> was Sir Thomas' comfort now, and she could not be spared in the same way <em>Susan</em> would not be pried from the side of his mother – the daughters of Mrs. Price of Portsmouth were to his parents what Julia and Maria ought to be but never truly were.)</p><p>Before departing, Edmund asked if she would not prefer him to stay.</p><p>Should he, he wanted to know, feel obliged to ask Mr. Tilney (he spoke no more of <em>Mr. Elton</em>, there had been some trouble with <em>him</em>, apparently) to keep watch over Thornton Lacey a little longer? Until Tom's return? Should she be more comfortable if he did that?</p><p>She longed to take his hand and cling to it like a small child, grateful for his staying, and to accept the offer without hesitation. But Fanny could not bring herself to be so selfish; seeing Mary Crawford near-daily after what transpired at the ball would only wound Edmund further, and he had his own life to return to which had already been put on hold – perhaps far too long – for her sake. Moreover, Tom – though he said he would return <em>soon</em>, in a general manner – had not given an exact date when they might expect him back; he might be gone a for week or for many months. To ask Edmund to remain at her side, a begrudging protector and unknowing buffer between herself and the brother of the woman he'd loved and lost, for some indeterminate amount of time would be a great cruelty on her part.</p><p>Still, it took everything in her to refuse and she cried herself to sleep – quite bitterly, as she had not cried even for <em>Tom</em> – the first night she knew her favourite cousin was no longer in, nor very near, Mansfield Park.</p><p>She tried to pretend – to lie to herself – that Edmund was visiting Mrs. Norris at the White House and could be back in a twinkling if need or whim encouraged him, but it was a dreadfully shallow imagining and she failed entirely to delude herself.</p><hr/><p>And Tom?</p><p>He found it exceedingly difficult to be cheerful, given the state of mind he'd left home in and the knowledge that he was en route not to some gaiety or other but to check on a sick horse, but he managed it for the sake of William and Mr. Yates, since they were sharing his carriage. (Leaving Yates at Mansfield while Tom was departing from it had not been an option Sir Thomas permitted, as John Yates – while deemed marginally acceptable in small doses – was hardly his favourite guest, and there was little enough to make him wish to stay anyway, because Julia had gone back to London with Maria before the family even breakfasted.)</p><p>If William wondered, however, why Tom could hardly <em>look</em> at him, despite being most amiable otherwise, he didn't bring it up. Perhaps he <em>guessed</em>, somehow, that it was the similarity in his features to Fanny's which pricked at Tom's conscience and tore down his natural defences. For all his rough-and-tumble upbringing, for all that he should have been a clueless and coarse sailor, he was a very perceptive young man in his way.</p><p>Perhaps the perceptive Mr. Price guessed quite rightly, for Tom felt unexpectedly forlorn when he and William parted as planned; it was as though he were losing his last thin connection to Fanny and being cast out into the world on his own as only half a person.</p><p>He almost regretted not allowing her to come when she'd had her heart so set on it – <em>almost</em>.</p><p>His stubbornness that he was in the right buoyed him and kept him from becoming <em>too</em> maudlin, even when he drank rather a lot during an overnight stop at a posting-house and Yates had a great deal of trouble rousing him in the morning when they were to leave.</p><p>Upon arrival at Newmarket, Tom was greeted by a panicked, flustered, and downright <em>terrified</em> groom with wide, blood-shot eyes, who informed him his horse had died only an hour before.</p><p>Tom raged at the groom, every bit as harsh as the man anticipated, uttering all manner of oaths and insults, and there ensued a nasty quarrel which Mr. Yates tried and failed to break up, and Tom's proxy (perhaps the only one with real brains of the lot, after all) refused to show his face and was called a coward and worse by them all – even <em>Yates</em>, who was quickly losing his temper as well after failing to deescalate the situation – in their mounting frustration.</p><p>Then they – all sour and put-out – went down to the tracks to see <em>Francis</em> in action, now Tom was there, so they could try to work out why the horse wouldn't run.</p><p>A practice race had been set up for the amusement of a few gentleman, which they were not supposed to wager on although Tom knew from personal experience many of them did anyway, and he saw his horse standing dumbly while the others took off at top speed.</p><p>The jockey turned and, goggling helplessly in Mr. Bertram's direction, gave a little shrug.</p><p>Tom swore again. "Even those bone-setters on the left, at least two of which I'm quite certain are half-lame and should be taken apart and shot before Christmas" – he hated to see horses suffer, and the poor creatures were clearly in pain – "are running as though horsey heaven awaits them at the far end" – or perhaps just <em>oats </em>– "whereas my Francis – my beautiful-stepper without a blasted thing amiss – isn't budging a bloody inch!" He pressed his hand to his forehead, groaned, and pushed back his hair, all but literally tearing at it. "Damn, damn, damn!"</p><p>Someone at his side <em>coughed</em> – a nasty, raspy cough that sounded phlegmy and bloody (as far a thing described as 'bloody' can be a <em>sound</em>) – and gasped out, in a voice which was probably meant to be teasing, "Is that any sort of speech, Mr. Bertram, to use in front of a gentleman's daughter?"</p><p>Starting, Tom whirled, spinning to his left, and recognised the woman standing there. "<em>Anne</em>?"</p><p>Indeed, it seemed to be <em>her</em> – it was her voice under the rasp, and her eyes and general countenance – only she did not look as she had when he'd last seen her in Weymouth.</p><p>The thirteen years (give or take) between them was more plainly visible now – one <em>could</em> easily, quite easily, believe her old enough to be his mother.</p><p>Or very nearly, at any rate.</p><p>Her face was pale and haggard and sickly, her hair a great deal shorter and less luxuriant. She was thinner and more bow-legged; her fine posture, the way she'd held herself, was a thing, evidently, of the past.</p><p>
  <em>The past.</em>
</p><p>How strange to put it thus.</p><p>They'd not been apart so long as<em> that</em>, so as to make such a dramatic change seem feasible.</p><p>How could life – <em>any</em> life, regardless of its morality or physical demands – catch up with a person so <em>suddenly</em>?</p><p>Tom was taken aback, and it seemed to him Anne – as he now saw her – was more an omen of death to be feared than any silly, drink-induced dream in which a robed figure carried a scythe and spoke cryptically, blithering out nonsense of falls and neglect.</p><p>It was far more frightening to see familiar eyes behind such a worn face as this than it was to see none at all.</p><p>There was a choice to be made here; he might ignore her, might pretend even after addressing her, to have been mistaken, to have taken her for someone else entirely, and nobody witnessing his slight would judge him. She was only a whore, after all, even if the story she'd told him about being a gentleman's daughter wasn't a complete fabrication, and not a particularly well-looking one at the moment. If he so decided, he could turn away in horror and cowardice and never acknowledge her again.</p><p>He might have done just that.</p><p>He might have, but he didn't.</p><p>Instead, he took her apart from the others, neglecting even Mr. Yates (who, stunned in his own right at Anne's dramatic alteration, was silent and still and unable to speak for several minutes), leaving his companion with naught but a brisk – and vague – over the shoulder promise of meeting up with him again later.</p><p>They walked – Anne and Tom together – the length of the track and the stands, and she, after coughing blood into a ratty handkerchief drawn from a frayed reticule and wiping it away from her chin before it dripped down towards the low collar of her dress, with rather an air of embarrassment, said, "It's good to see you again, Mr. Bertram – I hadn't expected, nor looked for, the honour." There was a little flash of condemnation about her eyes. His fellow gentlemen here might not judge him, regardless of his actions, but <em>she </em>would, where she saw fit. "Whatever <em>are</em> you doing away from home again? Isn't your wife well?"</p><p>"Fanny's well, happy as the day is long; I've just left her the other day." But he stiffened and slowed his gait. "<em>Really</em>, Anne, there's no need to look at me like that. She's <em>fine</em> – my parents just held a ball in her honour. Now, might we please change the subject?"</p><p>"Mmm, as you like." She blinked at him. "So Francis the Frigid is <em>your</em> horse, is he?"</p><p>"Sweet lord, tell me that's<em> not</em> what they're calling him now," groaned Tom, lifting a hand to his face.</p><p>"He's becoming quite the local legend." She smirked, not unkindly. "I should have known he was yours. He's a true marvel as far as beauty is concerned, but he's stubborn and a little bit stupid – just like you. And no three guesses who he's named for."</p><p>"And here I was, jolly near pitying you, thinking you so changed," he laughed. "You're exactly the same after all."</p><p>"Just so."</p><p>"Anne... What <em>happened</em>?" And he tried, then, to gauge – without prodding too much – if she had lost favour with his former commissioner, or if some other misfortune had cast her off into this state of apparent misery she could hide with her words but not her body, or even her voice, which came and went traitorously.</p><p>If her tongue had, in the past, been a good weapon for her, if it had protected her in her dicey choice of lifestyle, it was reliable no longer; her clever mind did not always have as ready access to it as once it had.</p><p>She would not<em> tell</em> him, for all his best wheedling and cajoling. She would not waste her breath or be induced to speak much of herself when a little of it could be spared. She conceded to lean on his arm, when it was offered, to listen to his questions, to then give them no answer, and to – in turn – ask her own, about <em>his</em> life. She wanted to hear everything. He'd said Mrs. Bertram had just had a grand ball at Mansfield, hadn't he? She'd rather hear of <em>that</em> than talk of herself.</p><p>So he talked, and she listened.</p><p>The conversation gravitated from Mrs. Bertram and Mansfield Park to horses again, and she gave her opinion on Francis, as well as her truly heartfelt condolences regarding the other horse who had died. He then managed to get from her, by taking advantage of her moment of unguarded sorrow over the dead horse, where she was staying, and – having heard of it through word of mouth – declared it, through lips pursed with utter contempt and disgust, entirely unfit and spoke of setting her up some place else.</p><p>"You're plainly ill," he said, when she looked at him in surprise, "you should be somewhere you can rest and recover."</p><p>She shook her head. "Mr. Bertram, I'm not going to recover – that is, I'm not <em>expecting</em> to."</p><p>"Nonsense."</p><p>It wasn't nonsense, and she told him as much, yet – over a plate of sweetmeats they shared, his treat, at a coffeehouse he'd ushered her away to, ignoring her half-hearted protests – he still insisted on setting her up.</p><p>There was a suitable inn which he knew to be reasonably tranquil even during the racing season.</p><p>"Of course," he laughed, picking up one of the sweetmeats and bringing it to his lips, "I always thought of it as the 'boring' inn, but it will suit for your recovery."</p><p>Anne studied his face.</p><p>"What's that look?" he asked self-consciously. "Have I got sugar stuck to the corner of my mouth or something?"</p><p>"Why are you doing this, Mr. Bertram?"</p><p>"I do not understand you."</p><p>"I've known men," she began to explain slowly, "and I <em>do</em> mean in the <em>Biblical</em> sense of the term, who wouldn't throw so much as a half guinea my way while they laughed, shoved me aside, and moved on."</p><p>"That <em>is</em> rather unfortunate, I grant you, and not very sporting of the gentlemen in question" – he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, just in case – "but, and pardon me for not following, what's your point?"</p><p>"You never <em>touched</em> me – we are not family nor intimate acquaintances – yet you wish to render me this service. <em>Why</em>?"</p><p>He shrugged, then – with a twinkling eye – teased, "Well, luckily for you, Anne, I come from the older breed of gentlemen; I <em>will</em> insist upon setting up all the women I've seen unclothed."</p><p>She bit back a smile and forced herself to remain serious, not yet allowing him to conceal his kindness within the comforting folds of a full-on jest. "Is it for the same reason you assisted Sophie? Because you wish to be like your brother?"</p><p>"Oi, come now, that wasn't the<em> exact</em> manner in which I worded my reasoning to you," he grumbled defensively, pressing his knuckles against the side of the table and cracking them. "But you are correct in one respect."</p><p>"Yes?" Her tone was even, almost sweet, but voice was cracking, growing hoarse, again. "Which one?"</p><p>"We are not intimate acquaintances, in any sense of the word, and we never can be friends – even if that story you told me about your past is true – but I can do this for you." He grew momentarily withdrawn and pensive. "This is the only service I'll <em>ever</em> be able to render you" – he could not know then, poor Tom, as he sat across from her speaking those words, how he was mistaken; that one final service to her, a far larger one, one which would prove to be a greater sacrifice despite being very voluntarily bestowed, one which would change the coarse of <em>everything</em>, awaited him, looming on the near horizon – "and I don't begrudge it."</p><p>She was in no position to refuse – dying, as she knew herself to be, desolate as she had been – and so she permitted him, in the end of all their talk, pride no longer a feasible option, to do as he would.</p><hr/><p>"<em>Baddeley</em>," began Fanny, hands clenched and fingers entwined as she approached, swallowing hard and preparing to draw another breath before continuing with her question.</p><p>"No letters today, Mrs. Bertram," said he, in his dutiful distance, but with the faintest hint of true regret and disappointment on her behalf he was not able – not quickly enough – to fully conceal.</p><p>"Oh." Fanny deflated. She'd once sworn she would never wish for another letter again – and she and Tom had not parted happily – and, still, here she was, desperate as ever. "Yes. I see. It is too soon, after all, to be asking. I thank you all the same, Baddeley."</p><p><em>I shall never learn</em>, she thought, turning aside and walking down the stairs with – though she might conceal it should anybody prove to be <em>looking</em> – the wounded expression of one who has been struck across the face.</p><hr/><p>After spending his mornings with his horse, still trying in vain to work out why the devil Francis would not run, Tom got into the habit of visiting Anne – usually beginning his visit at the same hour as the physician he'd paid to examine her near-daily when he realised rest alone was doing very little for her condition save slowing it slightly and not ending the visit until several hours after the physician departed, when it had grown quite dark.</p><p>Tom had never been a frequenter of sickrooms before. Even with Fanny's various symptoms – all those ghastly headaches and freaks of short breath – and often unspoken complaints that were never really made known until she could bear them no longer and must say <em>something</em>, it was usually Susan or else a servant who nursed her through the worst of the pain. Tom might bring her something practical he'd known to be helpful; he might even sit at her bedside for a bit and hold her hand very willingly until she gave him leave, with her merciful little smile, to go on and be out of doors for a bit. She'd assure him she'd be quite well, with only a little rest, and he would go.</p><p>His mother – with all her endless docility and lack of energy – was much the same. Following any bad spell, she needed only time to recover from whatever plagued her.</p><p>Time and quiet.</p><p>That and, since they'd brought her to Mansfield, the reassuring company of Susan Price.</p><p>Tom Bertram was a man who'd always been made, it seemed, for the house of feasting over the house of mourning – the last funeral he'd attended had been his Uncle Norris', and though he'd liked the man well enough in an abstract, dutiful kind of way he remained perfectly dry-eyed throughout the whole of the service. In all honesty, he'd thought more of his recent ill-luck gambling and how much his feet hurt that day (his narrow, unbroken-in, shiny black boots had pinched his toes something <em>dreadful</em>) than he had of the life the sombre family were all gathered to recall as his uncle's body was lowered into the ground.</p><p>In Anne, he found himself faced with an illness he could not wait out in the usual sense. She was right, apparently, when she said she would not recover.</p><p>All he could do was watch her grow weaker every day and visit regularly with the vague knowledge that, one day, in all probability, he would walk in, set his gloves down and kick off his boots, already beginning to grumble about his morning at the stables by force of habit, and find Anne departed from the world.</p><p>Waiting for death instead of waiting for improvement was a sensation entirely new to him – even Uncle Norris had died <em>suddenly</em>. It was true enough he often predicted Doctor Grant would someday pop off without warning, but he felt little obligation to see Doctor Grant every day and speak to him and entertain him because of this general assumption on his part. There was not enough money yet minted in the world to induce Tom even to willingly play cards with Doctor Grant without his Aunt Norris first twisting his ear into submission and leaving no way out. Doctor Grant could have been run over by a carriage and be bleeding from the head and not inspired in Tom the feelings of mortality and dread and pity Anne's unrecoverable state brought to his heart.</p><p>These feelings – her suffering – were forcing him to learn to think as he never had before; it was a sensation like being a great lump of silver held over a fire for refining, but the image, the shining reflection, of the mysterious refiner, the giver of life's hardest lessons, holding him thus was still a long way yet from winking back.</p><p>Daily seeing Anne in growing pain was only <em>part</em> of it, of course, and was difficult enough on its own.</p><p>There <em>were</em> some things the physician could do, loose bandages over an open wound though they metaphorically were, following the odd little extra coin from Tom slipped into his pocket.</p><p>"Mr. Bertram" – the physician clicked the snaps of the buckles on his leather bag closed before grasping the handle, preparing to leave them for the day – "have you considered opium? It might be something for the bad patches – it's done wonders with women who suffered from lesser complaints and may well take the edge off our patient's pain."</p><p>Tom didn't pretend to be unfamiliar with it – he was <em>not</em>, by any means, having tried it a couple of times more from boredom than anything else, though it had never truly appealed to him on the basis of pleasure, drink and snuff being his vices rather than a lot of smokes and vapour – and he did not expect Anne to be any less forthright than himself.</p><p>Indeed she was not.</p><p>It was Anne, in fact, who mentioned, looking up at him questioningly from under lidded, dark-circled eyes, they hadn't a pipe – a detail which had gone over <em>Tom's</em> head entirely.</p><p>"You'll just have to breathe in the smoke without one, then," he said nonchalantly, preparing at her bedside to administer it. "It ought to still do the trick, I'd imagine."</p><p>The opium smoke put her into a peaceful daze, and she sank her head back gratefully onto the pillow.</p><p>Growing woozy from the bit of it he couldn't help inadvertently inhaling at her side, Tom's head slumped forward as well and he soon found himself asleep.</p><p>He dreamed of the figure with the scythe again, waking with a near-violent <em>start</em>, his head now on the foot of the bed and being jolted by by Anne's knee under the blanket.</p><p>Anne smiled down in his direction.</p><p>The shadows in the room had changed; they were dark and, where light sliced through the curtain, pale blue-white from the moon's glow. He blinked blearily and shook his head in an effort to clear it as he lifted it.</p><p>"Welcome back to the world, Mr. Bertram – you're not going to ask me if you incurred any expenses from me this time, are you?"</p><p>Tom laughed at that, perhaps harder than he meant to, and needed to wipe tears from his eyes when he'd finished. "Not unless you're keeping secrets, my dear."</p><p>"You could leave me," she said, after a pause. "You've hired the physician and set me up here – you don't have to stay in Newmarket and come to see me every day." She turned her head on the pillow. "It's not as though I'm your mistress, Tom." She refrained from adding that many a gentleman in his position wouldn't do this much even if she <em>was</em>.</p><p>"Of course not," he replied, stretching his arms over his head, refusing to be serious. "You're old enough to be my mother. Which is one reason why, I might add, I don't object to your usage of my Christian name."</p><p>"Doesn't your wife miss you?"</p><p>Tom pushed back his chair with a noisy <em>scrape</em> and, stumbling to his feet, began to pace the length of the room.</p><p>"<em>Oh</em>." She watched him pityingly. "What happened?"</p><p>"I <em>lied</em>, all right?" he groaned, stopping in his tracks, still facing the wall. "All that nonsense I said about her being fine and happy – about the Mansfield ball. We quarrelled, at that ball, and I still don't know why. But I had a sick horse and I had to come here. There was no time to make it up again. We parted on unhappy terms."</p><p>"You're an <em>idiot</em>, Mr. Bertram."</p><p>He turned to look at her. "That really isn't news to me, there's no need to be quite so emphatic."</p><p>She closed her eyes and breathed slowly. "From a selfish standpoint, however, Mr. Bertram, I'm glad you're still around."</p><p>"Newmarket is always most accommodating at this time of year."</p><p>"<em>Mmm</em>," she sighed. "So I've been told; it's why I slipped down here for one last season myself. But this was beyond my wildest expectations."</p><hr/><p>Over the weeks which followed, Tom and Anne's relationship developed oddly, apart from the underlying friendship which (for all accounts and purposes) did not exist simply because by all logic and reason it <em>couldn't</em> and the bond of patient and nurse, far too new to Tom, so previously used to living only for himself, for him to have any real understanding of, they were uncannily like a gentleman and his mistress of the older variety who have outlived their passion.</p><p>Passion which, in their particular case, was never experienced to begin with.</p><p>They were securely on the other side of their mutual bond, contently dwelling at its end in pleasant domestic harmony, without having known – or having any desire to have known – its beginning.</p><p>Tom provided for her as if he were bound by the vague moral obligation of a lover – not only by paying for the physician, but also bringing food and gifts and arranging for her continued comfort in several dozen other small, practical ways, slowly adding up to what was near the running of a miniature household from Anne's sole room in the inn. He gave up, without saying a word about it, his own nearby rooms and ceased to leave at night, only being away from her to purchase necessities and in the mornings to witness Francis' continued lack of progress. (Blasted horse still wouldn't budge a damned inch, and here the season was nearly over!) He slept in the chair a couple nights, then – when a sore back and stiff neck could bear it no longer – paid the innkeeper to have a sofa brought in.</p><p>With no alternative for locations in which to visit his friend Mr. Bertram, Mr. Yates began to frequent Anne's sickroom, too, and – though he had no direct hand in caring for her, as Tom did, found a slight change in his character caused by the overhanging solemnity.</p><p>And yet they were, in speech and practice, as a general rule of thumb – as a little group of social castaways stranded in an upper-room in the middle of Newmarket – very merry.</p><p>Mr. Yates, positioning himself before the window, sang bawdy songs he'd memorised from those song-sheets that had not suffered the unfortunate fate of <em>Blow The Candles Out </em>at Sir Thomas' hand, warbling dreadfully until Anne was doubled over laughing from her place on the bed.</p><p>"Oh, if Mr. Yates were <em>speaking</em>," she rasped out in a fit of giggles, "I should call what he does now <em>ranting</em>, plain and simple. I somewhat regret the part<em> I</em> played in giving him those songs."</p><p>"John, for mercy's sake, stop making a grand exhibit of yourself," said Tom, rolling his eyes even as they sparkled with amusement. "I <em>know</em> you can sing – you had a fine baritone back in Mansfield."</p><hr/><p>Another person, currently in Mansfield herself, was remembering Mr. Yates' baritone as well, for it was wrapped up in her memory of <em>Tom's</em> singing and playing the pianoforte.</p><p>Fanny still had had no letter.</p><p>With no other way besides her relentless memories to connect with her absent husband, she took up the charcoal sticks he'd left behind (he had his sketchbook with him, but many of his superfluous drawing supplies had not been taken along to Newmarket). At first she only held them between her fingers and thought about Tom, but after a while she mustered the courage, though the thought of the presumption robbed her of sleep the night before she managed it, to ask her father-in-law for some paper and began – with no training nor idea of what she was doing – to sketch out smeary lines on the page.</p><p>She tried, once, to do a likeness – thinking to draw William as Tom had done for her before their wedding – but the result, looking more like an uneven pear on a set of broken stilts than a person, embarrassed and disheartened her.</p><p>She gave up the idea of attempting further likenesses before she could think of trying one of Edmund or Tom or even Susan.</p><p>Still, she dragged the charcoal across the paper, which she had asked for after all and felt she must use even if she'd lost her initial inclination, and worked herself up to slightly less awkward attempts to draw plants and parts of the house.</p><p>Susan found her sister in one of the gardens early one morning – before the heat of the day would make her fear a headache's onset – trying to sketch out some crude caricature of a weed the groundskeepers and gardeners had missed or else neglected in their uprooting.</p><p>She caught an unguarded wistful expression upon Fanny's face as she scribbled and struggled and bit her lower lip, and Susan's heart broke as she finally understood exactly what her elder sister's recent fixation with drawing stemmed from.</p><p>It was more than her simply <em>missing</em> Tom.</p><p>Fanny had learned – after saying she did not want to – to ride, and afterwards Tom had come home and been happy with her for a time. They had shared something which had previously only been his, and it played its part in binding them together anew.</p><p>The two things did not properly correlate, <em>really</em>, they were only happy facts which overlapped one another, but it was understandable that a girl like Fanny, with maybe just a little of the sailor's superstition running in her blood, from their father's side, might subconsciously connect the two.</p><p>"<em>Fanny</em>." Susan sat beside her and loosened the ribbon of her bonnet as she eased down. "It won't bring him <em>home</em> – Tom Bertram's coming back to Mansfield Park doesn't depend on you learning to draw, or developing an artistic talent. You understand that, don't you? Please tell me you know it."</p><p>And Fanny let her incomplete sketch fall from her lap and flutter down towards her feet before placing her charcoal-stained hands over her face and sobbing quietly.</p><p>Because she knew it, of course, Susan was not mistaken, but she herself had not understood what it was she was doing – that is, <em>why</em> she was doing it – until her sister came out and spoke so plainly.</p><p>Now she knew, and she was subsequently ashamed of her stupidity and overwhelmed with the feeling of being trapped more firmly in her misery without the reassuring pinprick-sized flicker of hope darting in a nonsensical manner about the back of her unwitting mind.</p><p>Susan took a faded shawl which had once belonged to Julia off her own arms and wrapped it around Fanny's shoulders, helping her sister to her feet and guiding her inside. "Why don't you come sit with me and our Aunt Bertram in the drawing-room for a while? You've been out here too long. Besides, your puppy is out of hiding and misses you terribly; the silly little thing keeps yapping at the walls and whimpering."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Newspapermen, Such As They Report</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Thirty-Two:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Newspapermen, Such As They Report</em>
</p><p>If Tom had known it would be his last conversation with Anne before she departed from the world, he might have spoken of something other than the B– – – races, despite her polite but evidently<em> real</em> interest in the subject even as her breathing slowed, somehow so gradually it missed his notice.</p><p>Her chest rose and fell, and then – quite suddenly – it fell with a little sigh and a last whistle through the nose as she exhaled and did not rise again.</p><p>When do you suppose Tom realised he was alone in the room?</p><p>Refraining from naming the exact minute, one has to admit it was still longer from the moment of that final breath on her part than did strictly did him credit.</p><p>And, as realisation dawned, his countenance clouded and he stared straight ahead – he was <em>stupefied</em>.</p><p>His first clear thought was an – almost angry – inner grumbling of, <em>You'd think a gentleman's daughter would know to say goodbye before she left!</em> And he had to dash the back of his wrist against his eyes and turn away until he regained composure.</p><p>It was an unforgivably shocking display, even in private, and he knew it.</p><p>His second thought was to discover the time so that he could be – more or less – certain as to the hour of death.</p><p>The clock in the room had ceased ticking several days before, and it had not been one of Tom's priorities, while Anne yet lived, to have the innkeeper send for someone to repair it (indeed, it never came into his head at all), so he was obliged to call the innkeeper up now and – in addition to informing him of Anne's passing – ask for the hour.</p><p>"Haven't you a watch?" asked the innkeeper, surprised.</p><p>"I <em>have</em>," said Tom, blinking, and feeling dully at his waistcoat, "now you mention it... How foolish of me. Funny how I hadn't <em>thought</em>–" He choked off, throat closing and stomach churning. "Pardon me, I fear I'm unsettled."</p><p>"I'm sure the passing of your friend has simply rattled your nerves, sir."</p><p>He spoke as if in a daze. "She wasn't my friend. <em>Quite</em> impossible that she should have been, you know."</p><p>"That's your business, sir, but you did good by her, far as I see it" – he lowered his voice and took a step nearer to Tom – "now's I don't mean to hurry you along too quickly in your grief, but the sheets will need washing and the bed airing, if you take my meaning."</p><p>"I-I must speak to someone," Tom stammered out next, glancing over his shoulder at the bed. "A solicitor, I imagine, about...the body..."</p><p>"I should think you'd be wanting an <em>undertaker</em> for that," offered the innkeeper, gently.</p><p>Tom shook his head. "Eventually, yes, for putting the body on ice and what not, I certainly don't plan on taking on the task<em> myself</em>, but, that is–" He had it in his head that she shouldn't be dumped unceremoniously into a common grave as an unnamed prostitute. If there was the tiniest bit of truth to the story she'd told him, she ought to have a proper burial, a <em>respectable</em> funeral. "<em>Christ</em>." He placed a hand over his mouth. "I don't even know her surname."</p><hr/><p>Some hours later, around teatime (which accounted for the mean, chalky little cakes which tasted like bad turpentine and the untouched yet filled to the brim teacup a maid had handed him, nearly scalding his fingers and knuckles in the process, when he came in) Tom found himself seated in the parlour of a certain Mr. Jones.</p><p>Mr. Jones was a funeral tradesman the solicitor he'd contacted had recommended, and he was in the company of that same solicitor – one Mr. Bamber – and another man – seated directly across from him on the opposite sofa with a notebook open in his lap and a quill in hand, occasionally grinding his heel into Mr. Jones' clearly inauthentic Turkish carpet – whose presence, in all honesty, Tom hadn't the foggiest notion as to the purpose of – a friend of Mr. Jones, who seemed to enjoy writing things down from time to time, he might have supposed, if pressed.</p><p>"All seems to be in order here, Bamber, we can certainly handle the arrangements for Mr. Bertram," Mr. Jones told him, setting down his tea cup and looking over a paper the solicitor had passed to him. "But we will need to ascertain the exact status of the dearly departed."</p><p>"I don't see how that matters." Tom reached for the top hat he had placed beside himself on the sofa when he came in and began fingering the brim, a touch anxiously. Because he knew <em>exactly</em> why it mattered. "You're to be paid the same regardless of who she was – what money for extra expenses I haven't on my person <em>now</em>, I can <em>get</em> – and I haven't a surname to give you – Anne didn't use one." Not one she'd shared with <em>him</em>, anyway.</p><p>"Curious," said Mr. Jones. "No surname, yet you indicated to your solicitor she was the daughter of a gentleman and could be buried on private property."</p><p>"She <em>was</em> a gentleman's daughter," Tom insisted, not really caring all that much whether, in saying this, he was lying through his teeth or else telling the truth.</p><p>Mr. Jones looked through the papers again, <em>tsk</em>ing. "I'm afraid your vehemence, Mr. Bertram, counts for very little if you cannot tell us which <em>one</em>."</p><p>"I tried to warn you, Mr. Bertram," added Mr. Bamber, in a lowered tone near to a whisper as he leaned forward. "I admire your discretion, and respect it. However, this was always a possibility. If you really <em>do </em>know, you do yourself no harm to tell Mr. Jones now. Indeed, I think you had better – that is my advice."</p><p>Tom's mouth went dry – he could invent a name, easily enough, but enquires would be made. Some gentleman somewhere, bearing whatever name Tom now pulled out of his backside, would be asked if he had a daughter Anne's age and would say no, certainly <em>not</em>, whatever <em>were</em> they speaking of, these charlatans, and – worse case scenario – the body would be dug up again (if Tom even managed to force the issue to the point of a funeral) amid a great deal of outrage on more than one side, and a lot of trouble would be stirred.</p><p>"There must be," Tom said, willing his voice not to crack, "a loophole of some kind, for a situation of such a..."</p><p>"Of a sort there is," Mr. Jones admitted, raising a finger to his chin in contemplation. "Now you mention it. Putting aside who she is or is not the natural daughter of, if this woman was the <em>mistress</em> of a gentleman, the arrangements would be slightly less public, perhaps, give or take one or two small details, but the connection would suffice as a reason to bury her among the gentry."</p><p>For a moment, Tom was furious with himself for not finding out the real name or status of his commissioner, the man in whose home there hung, presumably still, a portrait of Anne, Sophie, and the other girls all unclothed – if he could somehow have used <em>him</em> to secure Anne's burial, he'd have done it in a heartbeat.</p><p>Then it <em>hit</em> him.</p><p>He didn't need that man's name, or to prove he'd had relations with Anne.</p><p>This was it – he stood, metaphorically, as an innocent blinded with stupefaction teetering on the great social abyss. This was the final service he could render the woman he'd known simply as <em>Anne</em>, the one sacrifice he did not stop to consider could cost him more than he was actually willing to give up for her sake.</p><p>Technically, he didn't need to prove<em> anyone </em>had relations with Anne, nor bring up her profession.</p><p>Because...</p><p>"<em>I</em> could have," he murmured to himself. "It could have been me. So easily, it might have been."</p><p>"I'm sorry." Mr. Jones cleared his throat apologetically. "What was that?"</p><p>"<em>Me</em>," blurted Tom, louder, his choice quite made. "<em>I</em> was... She and I..."</p><p>Mr. Bamber's eyes widened. "Mr. Bertram, are you saying she was <em>your</em> mistress?"</p><p>Mr. Jones' friend, the one with the quill, looked particularly intrigued, though Tom couldn't imagine why.</p><p>"Indeed," Tom affirmed, setting the hat back down at his side and exhaling heavily. "For many years, as a matter of fact."</p><p>"<em>Mr. Bertram</em>–" Mr. Jones looked at him doubtfully.</p><p>"<em>What</em>?" Eyes narrowed, he glared at the funeral tradesman challengingly and drew a silver flask from his breast pocket.</p><p>Mr. Bamber sighed. "You'll need to tell him when this alleged affair between yourself and the departed began, Mr. Bertram."</p><p>The lie was so easy it rolled off his tongue – following a couple swallows of the contents of the flask, of course. "When I was younger – oh, about sixteen or so, if my memory serves." Tom sank back, stretching one arm along the top of the sofa and letting his wrist dangle over the curved, polished edge of the framework. "She was my first time, we met after a party thrown by mutual friends, and I liked having her around – a woman older than myself, you know how it is." He affected a brusque, throaty laugh. "If either of you have further doubt, I can show you my sketchbook; in it are several likenesses her, in a state of complete undress, which were done fairly recently – while we were in Weymouth together."</p><p>Mr. Bamber said he thought it would be sufficient, unless Mr. Jones yet remained uncertain and was afraid of being hoodwinked in some manner by Mr. Bertram's story.</p><p>But, no, Mr. Jones was more convinced even than Mr. Bamber – he believed Tom Bertram likely had only gone through the initial attempt to have Anne buried as a gentleman's daughter rather than his own mistress to spare himself and then, simply and with a devil-may-care metaphorical shrug, relented when such proved impossible.</p><p>Typical enough.</p><p>The same maid who'd poured the tea and handed Tom his cup when he first came in reappeared, then, in the parlour, holding Tom's greatcoat (she'd taken it when he arrived, though he'd kept his hat) and announced there was a carriage outside with a Mr. Yates who was waiting to escort Mr. Bertram back to the inn.</p><p>Tom rose a trifle shakily, put the flask away, and reached to take his greatcoat from the maid, turning to go.</p><p>Jones' friend called to him. "Mr. Bertram?"</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>"What you've said today – between ourselves, strictly off the record from Mr. Jones and Mr. Bamber here – is it true?" Then, almost as an aside, "Oh, I'm Mr. Dickson, by the way, I'm uncertain I was properly introduced to you upon entry, there being so much else to discuss."</p><p>The man – this Mr. Dickson – must think him thick as anything, if he believed he would speak freely in front of those two – and to a stranger to boot – off the record or not!</p><p>Tom thought of Anne, as she was in life rather than in the last moment as he'd sat by her bedside blithering on, smirked, and said, simply, "It might be true. It might be <em>a</em> truth – one kind of truth. Sometimes a person needs to say what others expect to hear from him." Tom swallowed. "A..." He inhaled and then released the breath. "A friend taught me that." Placing his top hat upon his head, he added, "Good day to the three of you."</p><hr/><p>
  <em>[Excerpt from a newspaper, the contents of which concern this portion of the story]</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It is with sadness that the editor of this article, currently in Newmarket to share with the masses the latest news on the season's dwindling number of races, reports the death of the apparent long-time mistress of Mr. B. of Mansfield Park, of what was believed – in the professional opinion sought out by our writing staff – to be consumption and a decaying state of the lungs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mr. B. was with her to the last and the funeral – held tomorrow, believed to be invitation only – is at the expense of his family.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As to the departed's family, its name is unknown to the editor of this article at this time, though Mr. B. indicated she was not low-born when he spoke to him in person in the parlour of Mr. J. of All Saints Road.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The editor of this article does not have cause to believe this event indicates a fracas in the little-mentioned marriage of Mr. B. and his wife, as his relationship with the departed predates their – notably socially unassuming – wedding by as many as ten or eleven years.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We ask, humbly, that you do not send flowers or gifts of condolence to our London offices as we have no way to convey them to the family of Mr. B. or the departed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[excerpt ends]</em>
</p><hr/><p>Henry Crawford folded, unfolded, and then refolded all over again the paper. "Well," said he, glancing to Mary across the breakfast table. "Well, well." And then he sighed. "<em>Well.</em>"</p><p>"Oh, spare me your <em>well, well, well</em>, Henry!" she cried at last, placing her teacup down with a light <em>clatter</em>. "It is remarkable, is it not, how one never reads the paper and declares 'well, well, well,' unless something is decidedly <em>not</em> so very well as all that!"</p><p>"I believe, sister, I said <em>well</em> four times, not three." But he handed her the paper – folded again – so she might read it for herself.</p><p>"<em>Oh</em>," she said after a moment of her eyes alighting on the page, upon the only passage that could have affected Henry so. "<em>Well</em>!"</p><p>The corners of Henry's mouth curled upwards, but he forced them back down. "Poor Mrs. Bertram."</p><p>"Yes," replied Mary. "I can pity <em>her</em>, at least. Mr. Bertram, however, well – what he did was not so very shocking in itself, if only he had been more discreet. If poor little Fanny had never known anything of it, I don't suppose it could have hurt her – you know what men are, Henry. You especially.</p><p>"Under better circumstances, he would deserve no more than a half-hearted 'now see here,' and a small slap on the wrist for what he did, particularly as it predates his marriage.</p><p>"Even the most close-minded of ladies has to admit, in this fast and free day and age, when many a gentleman scarcely thinks, regardless of his circumstances and allowances, to provide adequately even for <em>one</em> woman, Mr. Bertram succeeded, evidently, in caring for the welfare of <em>two</em>. Admirable enough, <em>that</em>. But Tom should have <em>known better</em> than to do something stupid like run his mouth in front of a newspaperman!"</p><p>"I would imagine he was under the influence of drink," mumbled Henry; "it is his most obvious vice – we all know it."</p><p>"This is not the first time," Mary reminded her brother, "this has happened in the world, nor the last."</p><p>"But for <em>Fanny</em>" – he cleared his throat – "that is, Mrs. Bertram–" Henry sucked his teeth and exhaled heavily, whistling through them. "For <em>her</em>, it may well be the be all end all, she is so innocent. D'you suppose she's read of this yet? Would Sir Thomas shield her from it, do you think?"</p><p>"<em>Edmund</em> might, if he were here. It is his way to protect those he loves, where he feels he can," mulled Mary, reaching for her teacup and, bringing it to her lips, taking a long pensive sip. "But as he is at Thornton Lacey, it's difficult to say what news will reach Fanny and when. I should think Sir Thomas would be more anxious about keeping the news from <em>Lady Bertram</em> – though it will affect a mother less than a wife. And keeping it from Mrs. Norris won't be... Well, I don't think<em> anyone</em> could ever manage that. And once <em>Mrs. Norris</em> knows..." She lowered her teacup again and stared off into the middle distance. "Well!"</p><p>"I'd altogether forgotten the old goat, she has been so much in the White House as of late," Henry admitted. "If <em>she</em> blurts it out, as she's dreadfully likely to, I hope she exercises <em>some</em> care for her niece's tender feelings."</p><p>Mary snapped back to attention. "Henry, please do remember, even supposing Tom unable to recover from this social blunder, supposing him physically separated from Fanny forever after this, perhaps by way of his father or Edmund's intervention on her behalf – and it is not <em>very</em> likely, Tom being a man in this world and not a woman, and therefore unable to be called <em>fallen</em> – she still isn't free to..."</p><p>Henry pushed back his chair. "I know it – painfully, as a weight upon my chest which has no relief – I know it, but she needs me, Mary. She needs me to be there to help her through this. Who else, if not me? Me, who she has directed her pleading, helpless eyes at from the first!"</p><p>"I daresay she needs <em>someone</em>, but must that someone be you? Hadn't it better be myself?" Mary appeared anxious. "With you rushing in like the white knight, playing the part I told you mustn't, which indeed I say you <em>still</em> mustn't, you'll only break both your hearts with what cannot be. Ask her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse – yet, she is not free, poor girl."</p><p>Henry was already standing. "For good or ill, I must be there for her – it is my fate here at Mansfield. Can you not <em>feel</em> it, my dearest one? Fate, binding me to her in her darkest hour?"</p><p>"What I can feel," sighed Mary, shaking her head warily, "is tension – tension growing and growing until it must, by some manner or other, be popped."</p><p>It was not this inevitable <em>pop</em> itself Mary feared – there were ways to recover from it, if only it were soft enough and few enough persons heard its explosion – but rather the force behind the pop.</p><p>There was a coiled spring behind her brother's eyes; a coiled spring behind Fanny's quietness and the good manners and breeding and domesticity of Mansfield Park in general; a coiled spring in Tom and Edmund Bertram respectively...</p><p>And it was growing so very, very <em>tight</em>...</p><p>Who knew what might happen when it was tripped, when it was <em>sprung</em>!</p><p>Even in the case of <em>solely</em> Fanny, Mrs. Bertram undeniably being the most constant of the lot of them, little though Mary herself might truly value such a quality in most matters, there was no telling – she supposed – how somebody like<em> that</em> would react to being honestly <em>tempted</em>, perhaps for the first time in their entire lives.</p><p>How could <em>any of them</em> escape something of that magnitude unscathed?</p><hr/><p>"There is something missing from the paper today," remarked Sir Thomas, his eyes flickering up to Baddeley.</p><p>"No, sir," said Baddeley, certainly too quickly but with the correct feudal spirit as far as his tone went. "I think there cannot be."</p><p>His mouth flattening into a grim, no-nonsense line, Sir Thomas lifted his newspaper, shaking it out emphatically as he opened a page to reveal a rectangular gap cut out and casting a little uneven square of light and shadow onto the drawing-room carpet.</p><p>"Ah." Baddeley looked momentarily discomfited and he briefly exchanged a glance – to Sir Thomas' great surprise – with Susan Price, who winced sadly back at him.</p><p>"Is there something you wished to break gently to me, Baddeley?" pressed Sir Thomas, sounding very put-out.</p><p>Susan bit her lower lip and turned her head to gaze sadly at Fanny, who was lost in her own private thoughts, sewing by the window. She took a deep breath and answered instead of the butler, feeling responsible since it was as much her doing as Baddeley's – they'd conspired together after seeing the article in the paper. It turned out Baddeley had something of a growing soft spot for Mrs. Bertram and Miss Price; perhaps because, unlike Tom, they never threw anything at his head, and unlike Maria and – to a slightly lesser extent – Julia, they never attempted, either of them, to boss him about, piling on requests as if he were their own personal genie rather than Sir Thomas Bertram's butler.</p><p>"Not you, sir," Susan said. "We were concerned about the effect on... Somebody else..."</p><p>Fanny was looking over at them now, guided from her inner musing to the knowledge she was being spoken of without being named by vague intuition. She knew something was up.</p><p>Perhaps it was connected to her fight or flight process – for, at that moment, none other than Mrs. Norris came running in, breathless, wild wisps of greying hair slipping out from under her lace cap, brandishing her own newspaper. "Sir Thomas, Sir Thomas! Have you <em>heard</em>?"</p><p>Lady Bertram started, unnerved by her sister's frantic state. "Is the house on fire? Has somebody died?" Pug – in her lap, disliking her sudden nervousness – growled.</p><p>Susan rose, took a step nearer to Baddeley, and whispered, "We forgot to bribe the house-maid at the White House."</p><p>The butler nodded sombrely.</p><p>Sir Thomas had the good sense, at least, to usher them all – Susan, Baddeley, and Mrs. Norris – into his study, leaving Lady Bertram and Fanny alone in the drawing-room while he discovered what this was concerning.</p><p>It all came out, then.</p><p>Sir Thomas hadn't been as in the dark as they'd supposed; a bill had come to him, for Anne's funeral, which Tom had not been able to pay on his own, and – after a strong moment's hesitation – been footed without further questioning, but there had been no explanation as to who Anne was, or why she was entitled to have her burial arranged by the Bertram family.</p><p>Now, according to the newspaper Mrs. Norris shoved in his face, Tom was allegedly providing for a recently deceased mistress of many years. The fact that this came, so very publicly, on the heels of a lavish ball thrown at Mansfield Park to celebrate Tom's love-match marriage of little to no social standing was <em>unfortunate</em>, to say the least.</p><p>"We have been made fools of," Mrs. Norris declared. "Absolute fools."</p><p>"Baddeley" – Sir Thomas decidedly ignored his sister-in-law's remark and set the newspaper down as if it were printed with blood blackening his fingers rather than ink – "be so good as to bring Mrs. Bertram in. I would speak to her."</p><p>"This would never have happened," wailed Mrs. Norris, stricken, "if he married Miss Crawford instead of Fanny. <em>She</em> would have kept Tom in line."</p><p>Susan's nostrils<em> flared</em> and her mouth puckered angrily.</p><p>"Whatever are <em>you</em> looking so sulky about, girl?" Mrs. Norris turned on her. "It's <em>your</em> silly, shrinking, utterly ungrateful sister who has–"</p><p>"<em>Mrs. Norris</em>!" roared Sir Thomas, already in a poor mood and not the least buoyed in spirit by her braying on and blaming his poor little daughter-in-law Fanny, who he perceived to be the wronged innocent in all of this sad business. "Show a little compassion, my dear lady, please! Put aside your grief at the shame, and think. Fanny has been <em>twice</em> abandoned and humiliated by Tom since coming here as his bride to Mansfield, and she has borne in silence what would have broken the hearts of most women." He added, as an aside, noticing Mrs. Norris pursing her lips, "Not all women are so hearty as you. I know you forget, but there are more delicate constitutions and fragile feelings in the world than your own." Then, "And in so saying I intend no disrespect to Miss Crawford – who is an admirable and lovely girl in her own right, I'm sure, and should she yet join our family I would welcome her, <em>gladly</em> – but I do not believe her capable of Fanny's grace and forbearance if put in her place."</p><p>"I see one may not speak as one sees fit in this house any longer," snapped Mrs. Norris, sardonically. "Not for fear of wounding Fanny's nicety. One cannot risk making the mistake, it would seem, of unwittingly harming the tender, soft feelings of–"</p><p>"You may speak as you always have," he replied, cutting her off, "and I daresay as you always will, Mrs. Norris, but – for today, at least – I may choose not to listen and to tend to my other concerns. Which, I fear, are very great this hour. Baddeley will be bringing her in any moment now, and I wish you to be kind to her."</p><p>"No one could have been kinder!" cried Mrs. Norris, sounding truly aggrieved. "I have never been anything <em>but</em> kind to Fanny."</p><p>"Good. Then you will have no problem standing aside and allowing me, without interference, to tell her what has been reported in the paper."</p><p>"She ought to be told quickly, and it should not shock her, for I still think she might have prevented it somewhat if she had behaved less hastily with Tom – you may think her pitiable, Sir Thomas, and I might have to agree she is, but I've told you before her behaviour has not always been what it ought to be.</p><p>"She has carried on with Tom worse and more wantonly than her mother with Mr. Price – and I ought to know, for I recall her parents' regular flirtations and eventual elopement, <em>exactly</em> – and regrettably must reap what she has sown. She's done nothing to tame Tom's ways, or to placate him, only to encourage his occasional ill-temper for her own means and benefit, and–"</p><p>"She's <em>here</em>," growled Susan, as her uncle gently brushed Mrs. Norris to his left and came forward.</p><p>Fanny trembled in the doorway, white-faced and white-knuckled, fearing bad news more than she did reprimand. "<em>Tom</em>–" she began.</p><p>"Yes, my dear," said Sir Thomas, taking her trembling hands and leading her to the fireplace, bowing his head and speaking softly. "This <em>is</em> about Tom. I'm afraid you must be brave now."</p><p>"He's hurt, or abandoned by his companions, or <em>ill</em>," Fanny gasped out in a breathless rush, certain she had felt it before she could know of it. And perhaps there <em>was</em> a bit of the prophetess in her, given what was yet to come, only still far too early in its foretelling.</p><p>"No. No, indeed." Sir Thomas was momentarily shaken by her intensity. "That is, my son is physically well, and safely in whatever it is he calls company, so far as I'm aware."</p><p>"I've had no letters," blurted Fanny. "I feared the worst."</p><p>Mrs. Norris made a motion as if to come forward and scold her, but Susan, as casually as she was able, stepped between them, blocking her off from getting anywhere near her sister and uncle.</p><p>Sir Thomas bent forward and gave Fanny a kiss on the forehead, brushing back her blonde fringe affectionately as her own father might have done if Mr. Price had been a more tender sort of man, a man more interested in his daughters.</p><p>When he pulled back, he told her, as gently as he could, what he'd read in the paper, producing Mrs. Norris' copy from the chair behind them and allowing her to see for herself.</p><p>"It is a mistake, sir," murmured Fanny, stumbling as she staggered a few steps to the left and Sir Thomas needed to grasp her shoulders and steady her. "It must be a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other person."</p><p>"Some <em>other</em> Mr. B. of Mansfield Park?" shrieked Mrs. Norris, unable to hold off any longer. "I should think you a very stupid girl indeed, Fanny, if you believe that."</p><p>"Mrs. Norris, I understand the present difficulties better than anyone, but if you cannot control yourself, I shall ask you to leave my study!" Sir Thomas gave her a hard glare. To Fanny, "You speak, I imagine, with a resolution which springs from despair. Mrs. Norris is right that it's unlike to be a mistake – it is, sadly, every bit as direct as it might be without giving me leave to take legal action against the publisher. Moreover, I know the funeral for this woman – whoever she was – was very real, for I have paid for it from my own pocket."</p><p>"If my husband, sir" – she took in a large gulp of air – "were a different kind of man, I should despair and make such a speech from it, yes..." She turned her head away. "But not <em>Tom</em>."</p><p>"I'm growing to fear, despite years of expensive education and attempts to raise them up morally, I do not know my own children at all."</p><p>Fanny did not deny it – Sir Thomas was a good man, and she was grown fond of him, but perhaps he gauged his own failings rightly when he said he did not know Tom. Indeed, he might not, but <em>she</em> did.</p><p>"If it were almost any other man in the world" – the exceptions of her heart being William and Edmund, who she did not feel the need to mention by name – "I could indulge no hope these paragraphs were false."</p><p>"It might be a mistake, after all – it <em>might</em>," said Sir Thomas, then, without conviction. "By all the saints in heaven, Fanny, if but I had your faith so I might hope as you do!"</p><p>"The damage is quite done," interjected Mrs. Norris darkly, "whether it is true or not." She drew a handkerchief from the folds of her skirts and blew her nose into it loudly enough to make Susan take several steps away from her in haste. "Dearest Tom has blundered gravely and made a spectacle of himself in Newmarket."</p><p>"He will write" – and only here did Fanny's soft voice at last waver with a trace of uncertainty, not quite able to convince herself Tom <em>had</em> written and the letter was gone astray as the one he wrote to Sir Thomas of their marriage had, though she wanted to believe it with all her heart – "and the mistake will be cleared up. I know it must be so."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Prolonged Absence, The Catalyst For Worse To Come</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <em>Merriment &amp; Wisdom</em>
  </span>
</p><p>A <em>Mansfield Park</em> fanfiction</p><p>
  <strong>Part Thirty-Three:</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Prolonged Absence, The Catalyst For Worse To Come</em>
</p><p>Henry Crawford found Fanny seated upon a stone bench, the shoulders and sleeves of her pale dress dappled with sunlight partially blocked by the tree which gave the bench spotted smatterings of shade, her face in her hands.</p><p>In her lap, unfolded, was a letter.</p><p>She must have heard his approach, for she lowered her hands and lifted her face.</p><p>"Forgive me for calling like this, unannounced," he said, "but I had such a desire to see you, knowing you must have heard the news and be in need of a companionable friend, and here you are. I have found you at last."</p><p>Fanny blanched slightly, and for a moment he feared she might be overcome and thus inclined to <em>flee</em>, but she did not recoil as he took her hand and kissed it. "You're swaying in place and your eyes are ringed with circles, Mr. Crawford," she noted, drawing back her hand and tucking it securely within the folds of her skirt. "You are tired."</p><p><em>Sweetest, kindest Mrs. Bertram, to have noticed!</em> His heart was full. He sat beside her on the bench. "Oh, I have paid too much attention to the papers as of late – that is how I came to find out about your present misfortune – and too little to the pleasures of the countryside – <em>society</em>, taken in too great a share at once, tires me." He turned his head to look at her. "I assure you, I am quite well."</p><p>"It is not true," she said, regarding – he knew – the misfortune he had mentioned. "I know it isn't."</p><p>Henry cast a coy glance upon the letter in her lap. "Has Mr. Bertram written and explained the mistake?" He tried to be happy for her sake, if such was the case, giving her his fondest, least suggestive grin, the manner of smile he'd have readily bestowed on a fellow gentleman or a child who he felt kindly disposed toward, though – in his most private thoughts and reasonings – he deeply resented Tom for being so unscathed and snatching back Fanny's tender, perfect affections as if he'd done nothing wrong, as if he had a <em>right</em> to them.</p><p>Mrs. Bertram shook her head. "It is not from Tom. It's from Edmund – he's written me from Thornton Lacey. He has seen the paper as well."</p><p>"And what does he say?"</p><p>"He asks if I have need of him, if he ought to come to me. He promises to make haste to Mansfield Park if I ask it of him."</p><p>"What will you answer?" asked Henry, curiously arching an eyebrow.</p><p>"Oh, I shan't take him away from his parish again," said she, colouring brightly. "It's a kind offer, to be sure, but I must get on here as best I am able. It's not an emergency."</p><p>"That is true," said Henry, encouragingly, "and moreover, Edmund Bertram is not your only friend."</p><p>"Yes, I have Susan."</p><p>"<em>Susan</em>." He choked back a laugh. "Indeed. I would be a fool to devalue the comfort a sister brings when I myself know it so well! But I did not think of her when I spoke – I meant myself, of course, and Mary. We are here for you, always, Mrs. Bertram; you have our unconditional friendship and good will."</p><p>She appeared moved by this, her lashes fluttering with gentle surprise as her eyes met his and then quickly averted themselves. "I thank you, Mr. Crawford."</p><p>"It is nothing, I'm sure you're quite correct about there being some mistake" – he was <em>not</em>, really, even in the <em>slightest</em>, but he thought the white lie would do no harm to a beautiful woman in distress and in need of solace – "and you must know your true friends stand by you<em> regardless</em>. There is nothing I despise so much as fair-weather companions."</p><p>"That is a point in your favour."</p><p>He cleared his throat. "I have been meaning to speak to you, on a matter of delicacy."</p><p>"Oh," she began. "Oh, please, <em>Mr. Crawford</em>–"</p><p>"Pray, hear me out – it is not what you think."</p><p>She blinked at him.</p><p>"I wished to apologise if I made you uncomfortable the night of the ball – I meant only to extend a hand in friendship, and to make you happy by doing something useful for your brother. I've since thought it over and subsequently feared I may have brought you some discomfort. I know Tom left immediately after, and... Well, I've made myself anxious that in some way..."</p><p>"No, <em>indeed</em>, Mr. Crawford," she breathed out in an anxious rush, "it was not you – you must recall Tom had a horse at Newmarket taken sick."</p><p>He was, of course, perfectly aware of it. How could he have forgotten? After all, it was he who had Charles Anderson delay the news so he might dance with Fanny Bertram in Tom's place, but she must be at ease with him or how could he comfort her? He was also aware putting himself at a disadvantage would appeal to her more prevailing qualities of forgiveness and tenderness.</p><p>"Shall we walk?" Fanny was rising shakily, lifting Edmund's letter from her lap as she did so – Henry noticed – so that it did not fall to the ground as once the purple flower he'd given her at Sotherton Court had.</p><p>"Gladly, but you are more tired than I – so you must consent to take my arm as we take our turn about the shrubbery, Mrs. Bertram; if I have been too much plagued by society, I think you – despite the news – have been given too little of the world these days."</p><p>"Then, you have news from London."</p><p>"There is nothing to interest you there – your cousin Mrs. Rushworth has not followed her brother's example of speaking to newspapermen."</p><p>She became visibly distressed and <em>tensed</em>.</p><p>"I jest," he said quickly, patting her hand. "I assure it is only a jest – there really is, in all seriousness, no news from London worth imparting, nothing of any interest. No war, no fire." He paused and sounded wistful as he added, "No revolution."</p><p>"You sound as if you were sorry for it – as if you <em>wished</em> to hear something dreadful."</p><p>"Not for its own sake, but – I confess – for my amusement and vanity, so I might prove myself, I sometimes wish it."</p><p>"We ought never to wish for wickedness, to speak of ill, contrary winds or fires, Mr. Crawford, it is inauspicious – at least, my father used to think so and bellow this opinion at us as children."</p><p>He stopped in his tracks. "Why, Mrs. Bertram, you have astonished me! Truly! Here, I had expected you might reprimand me for being a poor Christian and wishing – however half-heartedly – for something which might bring misery to my fellow man, and instead you give me a token. A boon. You have never so openly shared your past with me before! And now I can understand you so much better."</p><p>She was gone dramatically scarlet. "I spoke without thinking."</p><p>"Without recalling it was <em>me</em> you spoke to, you mean."</p><p>She stared down at her feet as they began walking again, her arm still tucked under his. "Yes. I'm sorry. I do beg your pardon if I said something out of turn, Mr. Crawford, or was too familiar."</p><p>"No, I'm <em>glad</em> of your freely spoken words – you can <em>never</em> be too familiar with your dearest friends. And now I know your friendship is not impossible for me to secure, that I have not wounded nor offended you beyond your limit, whatever my past blunders may be."</p><p>"I need to pick some lavender." She began to disentangle her arm from his. "Lady Bertram was to send Susan, but she had need of her indoors today, so I promised to bring some when I returned."</p><p>"Would it help if I accompanied you?" asked Mr. Crawford, sorry to be losing her at his side, to no longer feel her touching him, and trying to hide his regret and disappointment while at the same time perhaps delaying it a little. "Two pairs of eyes are better than one – and I know a good deal about botany."</p><p>"Thank you, that's very kind," she said graciously, bobbing her head in a sight curtsey. "But I would know lavender a mile off, Susan and I have picked it here enough times."</p><p>"Then – before I take my leave – might I inquire if perhaps my sister and I shall invite ourselves for tea tomorrow, if you will pardon our presumption?"</p><p>"If Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram have no objections, I'm sure the rest of us should all be delighted."</p><p>And Henry was never happier nor more miserable at the same moment in time, for he was more secure than ever in his belief that she loved him; he gauged from her unguarded conversation how she only held him at arm's length for the sake of propriety. Just so. She was the most admirable, principled of women, and the way she withheld any signs of strong affection, despite clear ardent feeling on both their parts, made her only the more desirable to him. Foolish Tom Bertram did not know what he had in her!</p><p>There was, Henry Crawford knew, as he had known for a while now and simply reaffirmed within his endlessly turning, spinning mind and heart, no woman suitable in the world for him, no woman he could call wife and willingly install at Everingham (if only it were possible), save poor Mrs. Bertram.</p><hr/><p>"Lord preserve me, what have I <em>done</em>?" groaned Tom, flinging himself backwards onto the bed dramatically, while, in the chair across the room, Mr. Yates sighed and tossed a cricket ball in the air, catching it before it hit the floor.</p><p>The windows were all open, in order to clear the inn of its stuffiness, as this was an unusually humid day, but it hardly mattered, now, who heard what – Tom's business was already public knowledge and everybody believed they had the full story.</p><p>A story he could never retract without making things worse.</p><p>How was he supposed to know the fellow with the quill in Mr. Jones' parlour was a newspaperman? No one had ever told him funeral tradesmen kept regular company with newspapermen! The funeral tradesman he'd met when Uncle Norris died certainly hadn't seemed to have companions from London's papers popping out of his carriage or trailing at his side!</p><p><em>Curse that damned sneaky wastrel Mr. Dickson!</em> Tom longed to find the sorry opportunistic bastard and<em> throttle</em> him. And maybe trample him with a horse for good measure.</p><p>Mr. Yates tossed the cricket ball up again, missing it, this time, as it came crashing back down, slipped beyond the reach of his outstretched fingertips, hit the floor with a <em>thud</em>, and rolled under his seat.</p><p>He decided to leave it, for the moment.</p><p>"What the hell d'you suppose I'm meant to do now?" sighed Tom. "How can I possibly set this right?"</p><p>"Well, you've got yourself into a pretty good muddle and no mistake," admitted Mr. Yates, still chipper, perhaps not realising the gravity of his friend's error. "But your Mrs. Bertram is so amiable – sweet little Fanny's sure to understand."</p><p>"It isn't <em>her </em>I'm worried about," snapped Tom, glaring at the ceiling. "It's everybody else – depend upon it, Edmund and my father will keep her out of my reach until they can be sure of me again." He brought a hand to his left temple. "I should have allowed her to come with me when she wished it. I might face anything if she were here with me. Distraction! A <em>distraction</em>, I called her! What a foolish notion! I could go back in time and <em>clout</em> myself for ever <em>thinking</em> something so nonsensical. Even if the world despised me, if I faced yet worse derision than this, after my humiliation here, I might have taken her – as I once promised – to Derbyshire. We'd have been together until this all died down, looking at cows, and I'd have taken it all in stride."</p><p>"Good <em>God</em>, man," exclaimed Mr. Yates, "mightn't you just go back and fetch her now?" He scoffed lightly. "You could so easily rush up to Northamptonshire, snake her from the shrubbery while she's out for a walk, drag her away into a carriage – I'll loan you mine, if you like – and, old bean, just like <em>that</em>" – he snapped his fingers – "all is well again." He beamed at Tom. "Buck up. She's hardly a princess locked in a tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon!"</p><p>No fire-breathing dragon? <em>Pah! </em>Clearly John hadn't become so very well acquainted with Sir Thomas Bertram during his short visit at Mansfield. Tom was utterly convinced his father – when made properly cross, angered by true scandal – was worse than a <em>hundred</em> dragons. Thus why he'd narrowly avoided anything of the sort for <em>years</em>, only to throw his efforts away now, on the funeral of a woman he'd barely known and yet – perhaps a little improperly – liked all the same.</p><p>He propped himself up onto his elbows and looked witheringly at Yates. "You can't honestly be suggesting I go to Mansfield Park and kidnap my own wife!"</p><p>"S'not like <em>you</em> had a <em>better </em>idea," he pointed out, his tone slightly wounded.</p><p>"I'm scared to go home, John." He winced and closed his eyes. "There, I said it. There's no use holding it back any longer – I'm afraid I've spoiled everything beyond repair and it's quite <em>hopeless</em>. And I'm frightened of my own father and brother. I hate myself more than I've ever hated anyone, and I love Fanny better than I did even in Portsmouth or Mansfield, simply because she's out of my reach. Perhaps for a long, long time. And that loathsome, undeniable fact makes me hate myself even <em>more</em>."</p><p>"<em>Bertram</em>–"</p><p>"I can't cope with this." The bed squeaked as Tom rose from it. "I'm getting a drink."</p><hr/><p>At Mansfield Park, the days dragged on – Lady Bertram fretting half-heartedly as she sat ever-stagnant upon her sofa and stroked her pug unceasingly and Mrs. Norris stewing and, when she could be sure Sir Thomas was not paying attention, directing accusatory looks in Fanny's direction – with no word from Tom.</p><p>Unbeknownst to Fanny, Mr. Owen had business in Newmarket, and Edmund had hoped, in vain, to have word from him he might convey, then, in another letter to Fanny, but there was, of course, nothing – Mr. Owen did not see Tom, keep an eye out through he did, and could give no news. So he remained at Thornton Lacey and, after his first, wrote no more letters to Fanny than did his brother.</p><p>The Crawfords were frequent visitors, despite Edmund's absence, and while they weren't the dearest faces Fanny saw daily, they grew somewhat more important to her by habit and association.</p><p>She began to think – to hope – Mr. Crawford really <em>did</em> only desire to be her friend, after all.</p><p>There continued to be something <em>off</em> about his attentions, but they seemed somehow less improper than they'd previously been – in small ways which meant a great deal in the long run.</p><p>He did not endeavour to touch her more than was necessary, or to recommend himself to her by flattering Susan overmuch, or by vocally defending her in front of Mrs. Norris, or anything else which might have been immediately distressing.</p><p>No, indeed; Henry Crawford was all smiles and gentlemanly manners and good jokes and pretty after-tea readings.</p><p>There was a time or two Fanny could scarcely believe this was the same gentleman whose over-familiarity had frightened her so at Sotherton. She had believed Tom her rescuer then, whereas now she could not think of Tom at all without wanting to weep. Her faith in her absent husband did not lessen, but her disappointment in his standoffishness yet grew with each passing hour and cold glance from their mutual aunt, and to dwell on him, on the memory of all she felt for him, hurt beyond expression.</p><p>During those bitter days, she could only speak openly of him to Sir Thomas, when obliged to, and to Susan, at night when they were alone, visiting either in Tom's sitting room or Susan's attic, and she'd downed a cordial or two (mixed to her liking by Baddeley) to keep the excessive tears at bay.</p><p>The Crawford siblings were safer territory. A land of emotional truce.</p><p>Mary's bright, dancing eyes and witty remarks distracted one from anything like serious contemplation – Fanny found Miss Crawford so exceedingly enjoyable to watch and listen to in those tense hours, she truly began, in a way she had not<em> quite</em> previously, to understand why Edmund could not, despite his strong mortality and common sense, free himself wholly from wanting her for his wife.</p><p>And Mr. Crawford, so much better than he'd once been, as if fine friendship and good surroundings really were improving him – there might be something of worth in him yet!</p><p>Fanny didn't cringe as she'd been used when he sat beside her. Once or twice, she'd been glad – flushed cheeks and bright smiles <em>glad</em> – to see him come through the door on a rainy day when she'd imagined he would be prevented from visiting by the unexpectedly poor weather.</p><p>Susan was growing fonder of Mr. and Miss Crawford, too, in her way, but as she did not have a wounded heart to distract from (disappointment in a wayward brother-in-law is extremely different in its effects from disappointment in a <em>lover</em>, after all), she was a trifle more cautious than Fanny, and did say, once, very quietly, that she didn't expect the dramatic change in Henry Crawford to last.</p><p>Fanny decided, after contemplation of Susan's remark, from some morbid curiosity she could not rid herself of, to test Mr. Crawford out by wearing – one afternoon – his repaired necklace in place of Edmund's chain.</p><p>If he looked overlong, staring as he used to, she would know he had not really changed – whereas if he remained gentlemanly and respectful, if he behaved as he'd been accustomed to as of late, surely she could be a step nearer to trusting in him, to believing his friendship was real and not a dangerous path to tread upon in her husband's absence.</p><p>To her great relief, when she tried it out, he smiled only once upon recognising it and said no more. He did not gawk or seem smugly satisfied. She'd pleased him, certainly, but no further than she had pleased his sister. If the gift had been given from a motive lacking pure innocence, surely it was not intended as such <em>now</em>. She fancied his cheeks were slightly darkened, gone faintly red, as if he were embarrassed to have taken the highly inappropriate liberty of gifting a married woman a gold chain, notwithstanding it was done through his sister, back then, for the sake of good appearance.</p><p>Susan, however, had been less certain. "You won't repent it? Wearing the necklace today, I mean," she'd whispered as they'd watched the Crawfords walking away from the house, back towards the direction of the parsonage, from the window. "He could suppose you meant something by it you did not."</p><p>Fanny shook her head. "I wore it only so I could be assured he <em>didn't</em>."</p><p>"If you're <em>certain</em>, Fanny, I think it must be well enough – I'm glad if he's gotten over his infatuation with you, at any rate."</p><p>Poor Fanny, gauging so wrongly with no notion of the gravity of her misstep, would have felt differently if she could only have heard what Henry was saying to Mary as they walked – all about how Fanny <em>did</em> love him, <em>was</em> beginning to forget Tom a little, hadn't she seen his own necklace sparkling at her lovely throat, which could mean nothing else – but she couldn't and so, at least for the moment, she couldn't repent her actions.</p><hr/><p>Tom existed in a near-constant state of inebriation.</p><p>He drank when he sat with Mr. Yates at the inn; he drank, slumped against the side of the starting gate, while he watched his idiot jockey attempt – without the slightest sign of success – to make Francis run; he drank when he visited a restaurant or public event; he drank when another newspaperman came around and asked him for a quote (and went away with nothing but a wad of brandy-scented saliva projected into his right eyeball); and he drank when Mr. Yates, attempting to get him out of his stupor, introduced him to a dazzling group of friends – most of them entirely new acquaintances, though some were vaguely known previously through Charles Anderson – who invited him to leave the inn and remain in their home for some unnumbered days.</p><p>No one apart from the irrepressible Tom Bertram could manage to be both maudlin and merry <em>simultaneously</em>, and his charming inclinations to make irresistible jokes – and even to sing or recite – when drunk, made him unexpectedly popular among his new companions.</p><p>This jolly crowd had no inclination of hurrying him along, and he – cowed by prevailing fear of home and by what he perceived to be the misery of disappointed affection in marriage (even if it was he himself who had done the disappointing) – possessed no expressed wish but that he might, with a very voluntary good will, prolong the visit for as long as they would permit.</p><p>It was, he thought, no bad place to stay – to hide out – for a while.</p>
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